You’ve always resented Addison. She’s too perfect, too poised, too effortlessly brilliant. You hate the way she looks at you like she always has the upper hand, like nothing rattles her.

Then, during a hospital fundraiser dinner, everything changes.

It happens so fast—you don’t even notice at first. Addison is sitting across the table, sipping wine and making casual conversation, when suddenly, she presses a hand to her throat. She shifts in her seat, blinking rapidly, then stands abruptly, swaying on her feet.

Her lips are swelling. Her breathing is ragged.

“Addison?” You frown, but then it clicks. Allergic reaction.

She tries to speak, but no words come out. The moment she stumbles, you’re on your feet, catching her before she collapses.

“Where’s your EpiPen?” you demand, panic clawing at your chest.

She tries to shake her head, her fingers clumsy as she fumbles at her bag, but her vision is already unfocused. Without thinking, you lower her onto the floor, your hands steady despite the fear pulsing through you. Someone rushes to find an EpiPen, but in the seconds before it arrives, you realize just how fragile she looks—eyes glassy, her body trembling against yours.

You should still hate her. You should be smug that she’s finally in a position where she isn’t in control.

But all you feel is terror at the thought of losing her.