Copyright 2018 by Colleen Hoover

just ask me to marry him? I could tell by the intensity in his expression that he
was more in love with me in that moment than he’d ever been before. I should
have said yes immediately, because that’s where my heart was. But instead, I
said, “Why?”
“Because,” he said, grinning. “I’m your biggest fan.”
I laughed, but then his smile disappeared and he started to fuck me. Hard,
fast thrusts that he knew would drive me crazy. The headboard was slapping
against the wall, and the pillow beneath my head was slipping. “Marry me,” he
pleaded again, and then his tongue was in my mouth, and it was the first real kiss
we’d shared in months.
We needed each other so badly in that moment, our bodies were making it

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difficult for our mouths to stay aligned, so the kiss was sloppy and painful and
“Okay,” I whispered.
“Thank you,” he said in the middle of a sigh, his words full of more breath
than voice. He continued to fuck me, his fiancée, until we were covered in sweat,
and I could taste blood in my mouth where he had accidentally bitten my lip. Or
maybe I’d bitten his. I wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter because his blood was my
blood now.
When he finally came, he did it inside me, without a condom, while his
tongue was in my mouth and his breath was sliding down my throat and my
eternity was entwined with his.
When he was finished, he reached to the floor for his jeans. He crawled back
on top of me and lifted my hand, then slipped a ring on my finger.
He’d planned to ask me all along.
I didn’t even look at the ring. I brought my hands up over my head and
closed my eyes, because his hand was between my legs and I knew he wanted to
watch me come.
So I did.
For two months, we looked back on that night as the night we got engaged.
For two months, I would grin every time I looked at my ring. For two months, I
would tear up when I thought about what our wedding would be like. What our
wedding night would be like.
But then the night we got engaged became the night we conceived.
And here is where it gets real. The guts of my autobiography. This is the
point when other authors would paint themselves in a better light, rather than
throw themselves into an X-ray machine.
But there is no light where we’re going. This is your final warning.
Darkness ahead.

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The upside to Verity’s office is the view from these windows. The glass starts at
the floor and rises all the way up to the ceiling. And there aren’t any
obstructions. Just huge panes of solid glass, so I can see everything. Who cleans
these? I study the panes of glass for a spot, a smudge—anything.
The downside to Verity’s office is also the view from these windows. The
nurse has parked Verity’s wheelchair on the back porch, right in front of the
office. I can see her entire profile as she faces west of the back porch. It’s a nice
day out, so the nurse is sitting in front of Verity, reading her a book. Verity is
staring off into space, and I wonder, does she comprehend anything? And if so,
how much?
Her fine hair lifts in the breeze, like the fingers of a ghost are playing with
the strands.
When I look at her, my empathy magnifies. Which is why I don’t want to
look at her, but these windows make it impossible. I can’t hear the nurse reading
to her, presumably because these windows are as soundproof as the rest of this
office. But I know they’re there, so it’s hard to concentrate on work without
glancing up every few minutes.
I’ve had issues finding any notes so far for the series, but I’ve only been able
to wade through a portion of the stuff in here. I decided my time would be better
spent this morning skimming the first and second books, making notes about
every character. I’m creating a filing system for myself because I need to know
these characters as well as Verity knows them. I need to know what motivates
them, what moves them, what sets them off.
I see movement outside the window. When I look up, the nurse is walking
away, toward the back door. I stare at Verity for a moment, wondering if she’ll
react now that the nurse has stopped reading to her. There’s no movement at all.
Her hands are in her lap, and her head is tilted to the side, as if her brain can’t
even send a signal to let her know she needs to straighten up her posture before it
causes her neck to ache.
The clever and talented Verity is no longer in there. Was her body the only

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thing that survived that wreck? It’s as if she were an egg, cracked open and
poured out, and all that’s left are the tiny fragments of hard shell.
I glance back down at the desk and try to focus. I can’t help but wonder how
Jeremy is handling all this. He’s a concrete pillar on the outside, but the inside