Chapter 1 - The Stranger Who Answered
The reply came so quickly that for a moment I thought I had imagined it.
Then the screen lit again in my hand.
Unknown Number: Are you alone right now?
I stared at the words.
They should have frightened me. A stranger asking if I was alone at night was exactly the kind of thing every woman in New York learned not to answer.
But when you have seven days left, fear becomes a strange thing. Some fears shrink. Others become enormous.
I typed back.
Me: Yes.
Three dots appeared.
Unknown Number: Do you want someone to call?
I swallowed.
Me: I don’t know.
Unknown Number: Then don’t decide yet.
I looked toward the unfinished painting by my window. The city beyond it was turning gold, the late-afternoon light pouring between buildings like molten glass.
Me: You don’t have to do this. I sent the message to the wrong person.
Unknown Number: Maybe. But I read it.
Me: I’m sorry.
Unknown Number: Stop apologizing for being scared.
That sentence broke something in me.
Not dramatically. I didn’t collapse or sob into my hands. I simply sat down on the floor beside my couch because my knees stopped feeling dependable.
For months, people had spoken to me gently. Doctors lowered their voices. Nurses called me brave. Friends used careful phrases that always sounded as though they were walking around a hole in the ground.
Nobody had told me to stop apologizing.
I pressed my thumb against my mouth.
Me: I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with seven days.
His answer took longer this time.
Unknown Number: What is one thing you kept postponing because you thought there would be more time?
I looked at the painting again.
There were too many answers.
Travel.
Falling in love again.
Calling my sister.
Swimming in the ocean after midnight.
Buying ridiculous shoes I had nowhere to wear.
Eating a dessert without checking how much sugar it contained.
Forgiving myself for the years my illness had stolen.
I typed the first answer that felt small enough to survive saying out loud.
Me: I wanted to see the ocean at sunrise.
Unknown Number: Why didn’t you?
Me: Because I kept waiting until I felt stronger.
Unknown Number: And now?
A laugh escaped me. It sounded almost angry.
Me: Now I have seven days and I can barely walk three blocks without getting dizzy.
His next message arrived less than ten seconds later.
Unknown Number: Then don’t walk.
I frowned.
Me: What does that mean?
Unknown Number: It means sunrise is at 6:47 tomorrow. If you want to see the ocean, be downstairs at 5:30.
I actually looked over my shoulder, as if I might find someone standing in my apartment.
Me: Absolutely not.
Unknown Number: Good. You still have survival instincts.
Despite everything, I laughed.
Me: You’re inviting a dying stranger into a car before sunrise. I’m pretty sure you’re the one without survival instincts.
Unknown Number: Public beach. Driver with identification. Female security officer. You can send the license plate and route to anyone you trust. You can cancel at any moment.
I stopped smiling.
That did not sound like an ordinary person.
Me: Who are you?
There was a long pause.
Unknown Number: Someone who thinks your first day shouldn’t begin in this apartment.
Me: That isn’t an answer.
Unknown Number: No. It’s an offer.
I should have blocked the number.
Instead, I stood, crossed to the window, and looked down at the traffic fifteen floors below.
A week ago, a reckless decision would have terrified me. That evening, the idea of spending my first remaining sunrise in a sterile apartment terrified me more.
Me: One hour.
Unknown Number: Two.
Me: Ninety minutes.
Unknown Number: Negotiating on your deathbed is impressive.
Me: I’m not on my deathbed yet.
Unknown Number: Exactly.
I stared at that word.
Exactly.
As if he had caught me forgetting I was still alive.
Me: Ninety minutes.
Unknown Number: Agreed.
Then another message appeared.
Unknown Number: Wear something warm. And Amelia?
My blood went cold.
I had never told him my name.
I typed so fast my fingers shook.
Me: How do you know my name?
No answer.
Me: Who are you?
Still nothing.
I stood in the middle of my apartment, every nerve awake now.
A full minute passed before my phone rang.
Unknown Number.
I almost declined it.
Then I answered.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice came through the speaker, low and controlled.
“Your voicemail identifies you,” he said. “I called once before I texted back. You didn’t answer.”
Relief hit me so sharply I had to sit down.
“Oh.”
“Reasonable suspicion,” he added. “Keep it.”
There was something about his voice that made it impossible to picture him. He could have been thirty or sixty. A lawyer. A teacher. A criminal. A man sitting in a basement under a bare lightbulb.
“You’re very bossy,” I said.
“I’ve been told.”
“By employees?”
A pause.
“Among others.”
I leaned my head against the couch.
“What’s your name?”
“Lucian.”
“Last name?”
“Tomorrow.”
“That’s suspicious.”
“So is meeting a stranger at dawn.”
“I’m reconsidering.”
“You should. And if you decide not to come, I won’t contact you again unless you contact me first.”
That surprised me more than anything else.
No pressure. No persuasion.
Just a door left open.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked.
For the first time, his voice changed.
Only slightly.
But I heard it.
A shadow passing over steel.
“Because once,” he said, “someone I loved had less time than she thought. Everyone around her spent those days pretending not to know.”
I stopped breathing.
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
The line went quiet.
Then he said, “Get some sleep, Amelia.”
I almost laughed again.
“I found out I’m dying today. I don’t think sleep is on the schedule.”
“Then paint.”
My eyes moved to the canvas.
“How did you—”
“You mentioned the painting in your voicemail greeting.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course I had. Months ago, when I had been trying to sound cheerful, I had recorded a greeting that said, If I don’t answer, I’m probably sleeping, at the hospital, or pretending I’ll finally finish the painting by my window.
“That greeting is humiliating,” I muttered.
“I’ve heard worse.”
“Goodnight, suspicious Lucian.”
“Goodnight, Amelia.”
He ended the call first.
I stayed awake until nearly three.
At 5:18, I put on jeans, a cream sweater, my heaviest coat, and the red scarf my mother had given me before she died.
At 5:27, I went downstairs.
A black sedan waited at the curb.
Beside it stood a woman in a navy coat holding up identification before I could ask.
“Ms. Carter?” she said. “I’m Elena Park. I’ll be with you the entire time. Mr. Moretti asked me to tell you that if you’re uncomfortable, we leave immediately.”
My stomach dropped.
“Mr. who?”
The rear door opened.
A tall man stepped onto the sidewalk.
He wore no tie, only a black wool coat over a dark sweater. His hair was almost black, his face composed in the way of people who were used to being watched. He looked forty, maybe a little older, and far too familiar.
I had seen that face on magazine covers in airport stores.
On financial news.
On a giant screen above Times Square beneath the words MORETTI GLOBAL ACQUIRES NORTHSTAR TECHNOLOGIES.
Lucian Moretti.
The Lucian Moretti.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I said the first thing that came into my mind.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
His mouth moved at one corner.
“I considered using a fake last name.”
“I would have preferred that.”
“I suspected you might.”
I stared at him.
He did not look amused exactly. He looked like a man who had forgotten how to be amused and was briefly remembering.
“You’re a billionaire.”
“So I’m told.”
“You don’t know how much money you have?”
“I know. I just dislike hearing people say it before sunrise.”
I folded my arms.
“Why me?”
“Because you texted me.”
“People probably text you every five seconds.”
“Not that number.”
Something in the way he said it made me look at him more carefully.
“What number is this?”
His expression closed.
“A private one.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No.”
Before I could push further, dizziness rolled through me. The sidewalk tilted.
Lucian moved instantly but stopped before touching me.
“May I?”
The question startled me.
I nodded.
His hand closed around my elbow, steady and warm.
No drama. No possessiveness.
Just support.
“Still want to go?” he asked.
I looked at the car.
Then at the pale edge of the sky above Manhattan.
“Yes.”
The drive was quiet at first.
Lucian worked through messages on a tablet, but after ten minutes he switched it off and put it away.
“Did I interrupt something important yesterday?” I asked.
“A board meeting.”
I looked at him.
“You ended a board meeting because a stranger said she was dying?”
“I ended it because everyone in the room had been talking for forty minutes without saying anything useful.”
“That sounds like a convenient explanation.”
“It is also true.”
By the time we reached Jones Beach, the horizon had begun to glow.
Lucian had arranged nothing extravagant. No private pavilion. No champagne. No orchestra waiting in the sand.
Just two folding chairs, two blankets, hot coffee, and the Atlantic.
For some reason, that made it more beautiful.
We walked slowly across the boardwalk. When my breathing shortened, he matched my pace without mentioning it.
At the sand, I stopped.
The ocean spread out before me, dark and endless.
I had forgotten how much sound waves made.
Lucian set the chairs down but I didn’t sit.
The first line of sun appeared.
Gold opened across the water.
And I started crying.
I hated crying in front of strangers.
I turned away.
Lucian did not tell me not to cry.
He did not tell me everything would be okay.
He simply stood beside me.
“I thought I’d have more time,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
He looked at the sunrise.
“No,” he said quietly. “I suppose I know the other side of it.”
I wiped my face.
“Who was she?”
He did not answer.
Instead, he reached into his coat and handed me a folded piece of paper.
“What is this?”
“A contract.”
I stared at him.
“Of course you brought a contract to the beach.”
“It’s one page.”
I opened it.
At the top, in clean black print, were six words.
THE SEVEN-DAY AGREEMENT
I looked at him like he had lost his mind.
Below the title were three rules.
1. Amelia decides what counts as living.
2. Lucian is not allowed to fix anything unless Amelia asks.
3. No pity.
At the bottom was a blank line for a fourth rule.
I laughed through my tears.
“You had your lawyers draft this?”
“No.”
“You did?”
“I couldn’t sleep either.”
I looked down at the blank line.
Then I took the pen he offered.
I wrote:
4. No lying because you think the truth will hurt me.
Lucian’s eyes stayed on the words longer than I expected.
“That could become inconvenient,” he said.
“Sign it.”
He signed.
So did I.
The sun climbed higher.
For the first time since the doctor had given me seven days, I felt something besides terror.
It wasn’t hope.
Not yet.
May you like
It was rebellion.
And as I watched Lucian fold our ridiculous agreement and slide it into his coat pocket, I had no idea that the one rule I had added would force him, within forty-eight hours, to tell me a truth that would change everything I believed about my diagnosis.
