“I’m sorry,” she said again. “But I can’t do it to you.” She stood, leaning on her chair for support. My mind reeled when I thought of her lately. How slowly she would walk. The times she would stop and catch her breath, disguising her reason for stopping as something else. The dark circles under her eyes. The need for so much sleep. The camisole she didn’t want to take off last night. If she’d had surgeries before…it had covered her scars. “I don’t want to go anywhere,” I said. “Please, Cromwell. Please just leave it be.” Her hand was tight on the chair. “I have to fight. But if I lose…if
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