That evening Sterling came in person to apologize.
He had just been discharged. His lips were pale, and there was still a small bandage on the back of his hand from the IV.
I was at Sotheby's Magnificent Jewels evening sale.
The room was low-lit and full of glass.
When Sterling walked in, half the room went quiet.
He never came to these.
He used to say private auctions were a waste of an evening.
For ninety-nine loops, I had skipped exhibitions, recitals, and trips I had wanted to go to, because Sterling found them tedious.
Now that I was no longer keeping him company, he was learning his way around my world.
The auctioneer brought out the next lot.
A seven-carat fancy-vivid blue diamond on a platinum chain. Opening bid: three million.
I raised my paddle. Three two.
From the back row, Sterling spoke.
Eleven million.
The room turned.
I looked at him.
He was sitting back in the shadows, and the only thing his eyes were on was me.
The auctioneer was thrilled. Mr. Thorne bids eleven million. Any advance.
I lowered my paddle.
Sterling took the diamond. He brought it across the room himself.
An apology.
I looked at the pendant.
In the 33rd loop, I'd lingered in front of an identical stone in a Madison Avenue window.
Sterling had said: If you want it, buy it. Don't stand there looking like you've never seen money.
He had then bought it himself and given it to Camille Devereaux, who had once pulled him out of a riptide off Saint-Tropez.
That evening I had worn drugstore studs to a black-tie thing.
Camille had touched my hand at the seating chart and said softly: You really don't mind, do you, darling.
I'd said no.
Then I had locked myself in a Sotheby's restroom and cried until I couldn't stand.
The pendant was finally in front of me.
I took it. I passed it to Maren without looking.
Send it to the foundation.
Sterling stopped breathing for a second.
You used to like it.
Once.
I looked up at him.
Now it's filthy.
There was a small intake of breath around us.
His fingers shook minutely.
He said, very low: Avery. I'll change.
I lifted my champagne.
Save it for the next one.
His eyes reddened.
There won't be a next one.
I smiled.
And what does that have to do with me.
I met Camille Devereaux at the door on my way out.
She was in white silk, fragile in the way she had practiced being fragile.
Avery. It's been ages.
I stopped.
Her eyes were already wet.
I heard about you and Sterling. I just want to say — you don't have to do all this. He cares about you. He always has.
For ninety-nine loops, Camille had spoken to me in this voice.
Every sentence sounded like concern. Every sentence nailed me one centimeter further into the place I was supposed to stand.
I said: Was there something you wanted.
She bit her lip.
I only wanted to ask you not to hurt yourself for his attention.
I laughed once, out loud.
Show me where I'm hurting myself.
Her face froze.
A photographer two yards over recognized her and started murmuring into a phone.
She went red around the lashes.
Avery. I know you think the worst of me. The blue diamond — Sterling gave that to me, years ago. I didn't know you liked it too.
She reached into her clutch and produced a small box.
If it upsets you, you can have it.
Pretty footwork.
Turn the old wound out in front of an audience. Remind everyone Sterling once chose her.
For ninety-nine loops, I had reacted. Tried to explain. Looked like the bitter ex.
This time I looked at Maren.
Call the police.
Camille's smile slipped. I'm sorry?
Maren had her phone out.
I kept my voice ordinary.
Sterling Thorne paid for that pendant three years ago. It's registered to Thorne Holdings' family-office insurance schedule. You are not the holder of record, and there is no executed transfer of gift. Wearing it out in public would constitute conversion.
Camille turned the color of fresh paper.
Avery, please — don't talk to me like this.
I stepped close. My voice dropped.
I haven't even started talking to you yet.
In the 27th loop, you paid a stunt rigger on my mother's Vespa to cut the brake line.
In the 51st, you sent me a tinted face cream with almond oil in it. I went into anaphylaxis at the Lincoln Center gala.
In the 80th, you tipped a tabloid to my involuntary commitment.
Her pupils contracted.
She didn't remember.
She wouldn't.
Cruelty as native as hers doesn't need a memory.
Sterling had stepped out behind us. He caught the last sentence.
His face changed. What involuntary commitment.
Camille turned and put her wet face against his shoulder.
Sterling. She's frightening me. I have no idea what she's talking about.
I watched the move I had watched a hundred times.
She cried, and he believed her.
But Sterling didn't shield her.
He was looking at me, and his voice had gone tight.
Avery. What you just said. What does it mean.
I smiled.
If you can't understand it, that's fine.
Sirens were closing on Madison Avenue.
Camille finally panicked.
When the officers took Camille, Sterling did not move to stop them.
He had stopped her, every time, for ninety-nine lives.
He stood and watched her walk past him.
Avery. Let's talk.
I checked the time on my phone. I'm working.
He stepped in front of the car door.
Ten minutes.
I was about to refuse, and a text came in.
Adrian Pace: Flying in tomorrow. Bringing you something.
I sent back: Good.
Sterling saw the screen. His face went a shade darker.
Adrian Pace.
I raised my eyebrows. Are you running my phone now.
He shut his mouth.
Then: He's not right for you.
I almost laughed.
Adrian was the man I had reopened a line to only in this loop.
He was the son of my mother's closest friend, and he ran the international arm of Pace Maritime — shipping and cold-chain freight, family business he had quietly modernized after his father's death.
In the prior ninety-nine lives, he had warned me away from Sterling.
I had not listened.
In the 14th loop, while trying to pull me out of a situation, he had been smeared by Thorne security as a corporate spy. His career was over by Christmas.
In the 39th, he testified on my behalf in a deposition. Eleanor's lawyers got him into a federal courtroom and out of it with three years.
In the 72nd, a Wellesley cousin arranged a car accident on the LIE. He died trying to get to a hospital.
Across ninety-nine loops, Adrian Pace was one of the very few people who had never harmed me.
I looked at Sterling.
He's not right for me. You are.
His throat moved.
I know I did wrong by you.
Where.
He didn't answer.
My smile got thinner.
You don't even know where. And you're already in a hurry to apologize.
He spoke low. I shouldn't have let my grandmother run over you. I shouldn't have put Camille ahead of you. I should not have taken you for granted.
I shook my head.
Too light.
He looked up.
I told him, one word at a time.
Sterling. Your error is that every single time, you chose to let me die.
The blood left his face.
Under the streetlight, he looked the way men look when something dropped out from under them.
Every — every single time?
The System started screaming in my ear. Host. Loop content is restricted. Do not disclose.
I pulled my eyes off his.
Forget it.
The car door shut.
Sterling stayed at the curb, his hand braced on the window frame.
Avery. What did you go through.
I told the driver to go.
When the car pulled away, he had to let go.
In the side mirror, he got smaller.
The System spoke up softly. Male Lead Affection Meter rising. Now at sixty-two.
Adrian Pace flew in on my birthday.
He sent me a pin from JFK arrivals.
When I got there, he was standing past the rope, in a dove-grey overcoat, holding a paper-wrapped bunch of white garden roses.
He saw me. He smiled like he had nowhere else to be.
Ms. Wynn. Happy birthday.
I took the flowers.
Mr. Pace. Long flight.
He looked down at me.
You've gotten thinner.
I lost my footing for half a second.
Since the hundredth loop, everyone I knew had told me I'd changed. Gotten cold. Gotten sharp.
Only Adrian had ever asked whether I was tired.
I looked past his shoulder.
Busy quarter.
He didn't press. He handed me a box.
Inside was a small pearl-grey brooch — moonlit silver, marquise-shaped, with a single seed pearl.
My mother had designed the same brooch decades ago. The piece had gone out of production.
For ninety-nine loops, I'd missed the resale auction because of one of Sterling's dinners.
This time, Adrian had found it for me.
My fingertip stayed on the surface.
How much.
He smiled. Talking about money damages the relationship.
I looked up.
He added: Talking about a partnership, on the other hand — I can do twenty percent off.
I laughed.
A voice cut in behind me.
Avery.
Sterling was a few feet away.
He had come straight from the office. His tie was crooked.
His eyes flicked between me and Adrian.
Adrian shifted half a step in front of me.
Mr. Thorne. Something you needed.
Sterling didn't look at him.
It's your birthday.
I said, Good of you to remember, Sterling.
For ninety-nine loops, he had not.
The only time he had remembered, it was the 99th.
He'd given me a birthday, and then he had killed me that same night.
Sterling produced a small box.
A gift.
I didn't take it.
He opened it.
It wasn't the Cartier.
It was a custom ring. Platinum band, marquise-cut sapphire on a wreath of seed pearls.
I had drawn that ring once, on the back of a hotel napkin, in our first loop.
I'd shown it to him.
I'd told him I'd like a ring like that, one day.
He'd said it sounded sentimental.
It turned out he had remembered.
I looked at the ring. The wave I'd expected to feel didn't come.
Adrian asked quietly: Do you want me to handle this.
I shook my head.
Sterling's voice was hoarse.
Avery. Happy birthday.
I shifted the roses into Adrian's arm, freeing my right hand.
Sterling's eyes brightened for a single beat.
Then I closed the lid of the ring box and put it back into his palm.
Sterling. I don't accept weapons.
He stopped breathing.
I went around him toward the parking deck.
The System pinged. Male Lead Affection Meter at seventy-one.