On the final night, he took me to an empty concert hall. He sat me at a grand piano. My hands hovered over the keys, inert.

“No,” I said, laying my head on his chest, listening to the hollow beat where his heart should have been. “I think you just saved me.”

He smiled. It was a terrible, beautiful thing. “Read the fine print, darling. Clause three.”

I looked at his face—the sharp angles, the burning eyes, the hint of a sadness he would never admit to. And I realized Clause three wasn't a curse. It was his weakness.

“Damn you,” he whispered.