Chapter 1

When I was dying of late-stage cancer, I fell in love with a “blind” massage therapist.

Then I got pregnant. For my baby, I gave up chemo.

I worked myself to the bone, saving every dollar for him and our child.

I even signed a cornea-donation form—my final gift—so he could “see the world” after I was gone.

But then, in the hospital director’s office, I saw a photo of him surfing—eyes bright, locked on the waves.

“This is my son,” Director Vance said.

I froze. “Your son… isn’t blind?”

“Blind?” Vance laughed. “Of course not. He just has this weird hobby—loves role-playing. I heard he’s been pretending to be a blind massage therapist lately.”

I looked down at my swollen belly.

And I made up my mind.

“Dr. Vance,” I said calmly, “sign me up for the new-drug trial.

But under one condition—I want to play a role-playing game too.”

Leaving the hospital, I finally heard Asher's voice message.

"Hey babe, pulling a double at the parlor tonight. That's an extra twenty bucks toward your necklace."

Before, I'd have replied with a sixty-second voice memo, all honey and heartbeat.

Now, my voice turned to ash before it could leave my throat.

In that photo I'd just seen, he wore his half of a matching set with another woman. It's an eight-figure custom design.

A wave of bitter pain washed through me, seeping into my bones.

Ding!

Another voice message. "Why aren't you answering? You don't want it?"

My fingers trembled, hitting the wrong icon.

His reply was instant. "Why did you just send a period?"

I stared at the screen. A sound escaped me-half laugh, half sob.

He could see.

He had always been able to see.

Snowflakes needled my face. I threw open every door down the street.

Finally, in a private booth, I found Asher, surrounded by people.

A burst of laughter hit me first.

"Asher, when are you going to reveal the truth?"

He tilted his head back, draining half his glass.

And for the first time, I truly saw those eyes. Cold, Sharp.

Just as beautiful as they had been in my dreams.

He used to sigh, saying that restoring his sight would take a cornea donor and a fortune in surgery.

I had actually considered it. Donating my corneas to him after I died.

I'd even researched what every part of my body was worth on the market. Surely, I could piece together a million.

Giving him back the light was my last, desperate purpose.

So tell me, Asher. What's the price for three years of genuine love?

At the table, his voice was flat, bored.

"I'll come clean whenever. I'm tired of her. She's the one who can't move on."

The girl from the photo lunged, planting a wet kiss on his cheek. Grinning, she went for the velvet box in his pocket.

He caught her wrist.

"That's a five-dollar trinket. Yours is being delivered from the high-end boutique."

The room erupted.

"Cheap girls get cheap prizes!"

She pouted, all playful venom. "Asher, promise me one thing. When we get engaged, we invite that old hag to watch."

Asher took a drag of his cigarette. The ember glowed, then faded. He said nothing.

"Don't tell me you actually fell for it, Asher," someone sneered.

"That woman was devoted! Her mother's entire life savings went to him. That's the seed money for his ‘struggling blind masseur' act."

In the roar of laughter, the world dissolved. I was falling.

My mother's last words, whispered through morphine, surfaced like a curse. "He's an orphan. No family, no prospects. My darling…I'm just afraid he'll break your heart."

But she still left the money to Asher.

"My daughter is marrying you. This is her gift."

That day, Asher looked at the shop deed, face averted, hands trembling.