The morgue tag said Jane Doe 217.
I pulled it off and checked my phone. 15 million notifications. My husband's TikTok was still playing on loop—me on the bathroom floor, him laughing, caption: "When your wife is being dramatic about the flu."
The video had been up for six hours.
I'd been dead for five.
I checked his location: Ritz-Carlton, room 614. Checked her profile: Sloane Parrish, 800k followers, "clean girl aesthetic," last post fifteen minutes ago—a mirror selfie at the Ritz with the caption "taken."
I wrapped the sheet around myself and walked out.
The Uber driver asked if I'd been at a party.
"Something like that," I said.
He dropped me at the hotel at 3 AM. I took the stairs to the sixth floor. Found room 614. The door was cracked—champane bucket outside, room service tray abandoned.
I pushed it open.
My husband was in bed with Sloane Parrish. Her phone was propped on the nightstand, recording.
They both looked up.
I picked up her phone. Turned it to face them.
"Don't stop on my account," I said. "The lighting's terrible for content."