Chapter 2

The glass door of the conference room slammed open as Ethan Miller stumbled in, his bone-china cup crashing to the floor in sharp, splintering pieces.

Blood dripped from his palm, soaking into the beige carpet like a slap of color on a blank canvas.

Emily Johnson froze mid-signature.

She shoved the documents aside and stood, her heels crunching over scattered papers as she grabbed Ethan's wrist, crimson smearing across her fingers.

Her voice sliced through the silence, ice-cold. "Who did this?"

The crowd instinctively parted, revealing me at the back of the room.

The intern who'd tried to steady Ethan was visibly shaking. I didn't flinch—just met Emily's stare with a wry smile. "I pushed him. What? Worried about your little boyfriend?"

Ethan jerked his hand away, his voice oddly steady despite the red rim around his eyes. "Director Thompson's right. I had it coming. But I love Emily. Call me a homewrecker—I don't care."

Then he laughed. The kind that scraped against your nerves.

His blood-streaked hand reached for Emily's pinky, hooking around it with the entitlement of someone who thought he'd won.

"You said you'd protect me," he murmured.

And just like that, the frost in Emily's eyes thawed.

She pressed a handkerchief to his wound, her voice softer than I'd heard in years. "Come on. Let's get you to the infirmary."

When she looked at me again, it was like I was an old coat someone forgot to throw away.

"Fifty grand," I said, stepping in her path. "It's my birthday."

The air tightened. No one spoke.

Emily folded the bloodied handkerchief carefully, like it was cashmere instead of cotton, and let out a faint, amused laugh. "Fine."

Then she turned to Ethan, lifting his chin.

"But first, apologize to my Ethan."

There were still tear tracks on his cheeks, but a smug little grin curled at the corners of his mouth as he leaned into her, smearing blood all over her expensive designer blazer.

A sharp jolt ripped through my gut. I could feel sweat breaking out across my skin.

What a joke—doctors told me I had three months left, and she couldn't even give me three minutes.

I turned away. The shattered porcelain crunched under my heel like the sound of something breaking inside me.

I wondered—when chemo started and my hair was gone, would she still be standing by Ethan, laughing at how pathetic I looked?

By the time I made it home, I barely had the strength to crawl into bed.

Pain twisted in my stomach, cold sweat soaking through my clothes.

With shaking hands, I swallowed two sleeping pills and muttered to myself, "Sleep. Just sleep. It'll stop hurting when you sleep."

Somewhere between consciousness and the dark, I dreamed of the Emily from ten years ago.

Back then, she was broke—but she gave me everything.

I remembered one birthday in particular. We passed a fancy café, the kind with tall windows and white cakes that looked too pretty to eat.

Snow was falling in thick sheets.

I scooped a clump of it into my hands, smiling. "Hey, doesn't this look like cake?"

Emily suddenly threw her arms around me, burying her face in my shoulder so I wouldn't see her crying.

Three days later, she showed up outside my dorm with a $35 cake in her frostbitten hands.

I found out later she'd passed out three thousand flyers in a snowstorm to afford it. Her fingers were raw and swollen from the cold.

Tears stung my eyes when I saw them. "Emily... Your hands are meant for writing dissertations, not this."

"I don't care," she said, fierce and serious. "Lucas, you're the best man I know. You deserve every good thing."

That day, I cried while eating the entire cake.

I can't remember what it tasted like now.

But I do know I've never eaten a better one since.

The ring of my phone jolted me out of sleep.

Still half-dazed, I answered.

"Lucas?" It was Emily's voice.

"Em," I murmured, "it's snowing... I want cake."

She didn't get a chance to reply before I slipped back under again.

The next thing I knew, pain ripped through my stomach like a knife, dragging me wide awake in the middle of the night.