UNLUCKY.

Not immediately, of course. My husband has to stay alive long enough to watch his life fall without me and understand: he has made the wrong decision. The price appropriate to what he has done; and, if I am lucky, he will also understand at the end of it all that I was the best choice.

"So what are you gonna do about it?" the voice on the other end of the line asks, chirpy.

"We're going on a cruise," I tell it. "Other than that, none of your business."

"Wow, you psycho bitch," it says. "You don't want him? Give him to me, then."

I laugh at that, but even through the phone Luna can tell it is not genuine.

"You're seriously so psycho, you know that?" she tells me, laughing. "Jeez, what'd he do in his past life to end up with you?"

I sigh, running my fingers through my hair - a convenient shoulder length, brown, although it turns a mahogany color in the sunlight. "He's lucky I'm considering him."

"Narcissist psycho bitch."

I click my tongue. "So crass."

"Since when have you cared?"

"He has everything he wants here. He'll realize that eventually."

"Hey, have you considered therapy?"

I went once. The first and final time I ever consulted a therapist. It was my husband, of course, who suggested it. "You need therapy," he shouted during an argument - more one-sided than anything - "You're sick. You need to get therapy, or I'm leaving you."

So I went, fed them lies about how I was overworked, how I couldn't balance everything, how I stayed up all night doing paperwork, how I thought my life was miserable and hated my marriage, and they prescribed me sleep medication and antidepressants and sent me home. I fed the medication to my husband at the prescribed dosages and after a while, the arguments stopped.

Naturally, when the medication ran out, I went back, asking for more - and they started asking questions. A week later, I got a call to come back in, and a woman in gaudy red lipstick and flats told me I had antisocial personality disorder - A.K.A. psychopathy, and handed me a paper that I went home and burned. They wouldn't give me any more medication after that diagnosis; so I never came back, scrubbed any mention of it from any of their records, and that was the end of therapy.

I would never, of course, tell Luna any of this; with the way she runs her mouth, I am careful to never tell her anything worth an investigation. So instead, I smile - although she can't see it - and say, simply, "No."

It elicits a laugh from her, more a snort than anything. "Of course you haven't. Well, you really should. At least for your poor husband."

She goes to hang up - I hear it in her voice. But before she can, I interrupt: "Oh," I say, in my sweetest voice, "By the way, we're going on a cruise next week. For business."

This brings a storm of laughter from Luna. "Lord help your poor husband's soul," she says, giggling maniacally, "What do you want me to do about it?"

"Come with us. It's plus four, technically, for any kids. I'd rather not be the only one there with only one invite," I lie smoothly. It is a realistic enough excuse that Luna might be convinced to come; the real reason I invite her is because my husband, in his sweet, dog-like way, has obviously had a crush on her for years. It used to bother me - in much the way a dog owner is bothered by their dog getting along with other people; but Luna serves another purpose, one that is important enough that I can tolerate it, my property becoming someone else's for a moment.

"You…" Luna says, wary. "You're planning something, you conniving-"

"I'm not," I say, lacing my voice with enough venom that she believes me.

"Or are you just a narcissist?" she says, her voice lightening again, "I really can't tell. You should be an actress, you know."

"Look, there's free food and alcohol. I just need you to behave yourself, and get along with Jacob."

"Jacob?"

"The head of ICor."

"Since when were you on a first name basis with… oh," she trails off, "Oh. You sneaky bitch."

"Are you going?"

A moment of silence on the other line. Then: "How much?"

"Your usual rate."

Luna laughs, this time her laughter light, knowing. "What's his favorite color?"

"On you? Red. Or nothing."

"Hobby?"

"He loves symbolism. Flowers. Also, collecting fountain pens. I've got a couple of rare ones for you already."

"Favorite flower?"

"The belladonna lily. It means love, hope, determination, et cetera. Incidentally, it's also incredibly poisonous. Read up on it. The cruise is in a week."

"Wait, I nee-" I hang up on her before she can finish the sentence. My phone pings - a text, from Luna, with enough cursing and middle finger emojis to make me silence my phone.

"It's going well," I say to my reflection in the mirror. I trace it gently; the brown eyes, framed by dark eyelashes; the straight, slightly upturned nose, the full lips. "Just be patient, darling." I watch my eyes flutter for a moment, breath condensing on the mirror, and smile slowly, crinkling the sides of my eyes, watching the corners of my mouth crease.

I trust Luna, albeit not as much as I trust myself, because there is no one I trust more than myself. But I trust her enough to allow her near Argo, despite his clear desire for her; I trust her enough to handle honey traps. I allow myself, one last time, to look in the mirror; to see myself, but also Luna. Her brown eyes, framed by dark eyelashes; the straight, slightly upturned nose, the full lips.

I trust Luna. She is, after all, my sister.