Her heart stopped momentarily.

She’d done it. She’d finally set things in motion.

She placed her hand over her heart, willing it to beat again. It thumped weakly in response. If she wasn’t careful, she would give herself a palpitation. She smiled.

She thought it might be fitting if she actually died of a broken heart.

She was being too literal, of course. And it was probably morbid, but the idea warmed her.

If tonight went well, she would simply abort the plan. But she knew, somehow, that it wouldn’t. It would be hard, painful, messy.

And she welcomed it.