Chapter 3

The lights were on when I walked in.

Emily Johnson was actually home, silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling window, a cigarette smoldering between her fingers.

Moonlight etched her profile in silver, and through the drifting smoke, her stare cut right through me.

I headed for the fridge.

She caught my wrist, her touch cold but voice impossibly soft. "You've lost weight."

I yanked away. "Emily, are you out of your damn mind?"

She looked down at her empty hand like it had betrayed her. The smile on her lips slowly froze over.

Then I saw it—

A cake on the dining table.

"Happy Birthday" written in soft frosting, already starting to melt.

So that call last night… hadn't been a dream.

I walked over, picked up the cake, and tossed it into the trash.

Something inside her snapped. She slammed me against the wall. "Lucas, what the hell is wrong with you? Are you playing with me?"

I laughed, chest burning. "Of course I am. You're still the same, Emily—pathetic enough to come running the second I snap my fingers."

Her eyes reddened. She dragged me to the bedroom like a woman possessed.

She bit down hard on my lip, the coppery taste of blood spreading in my mouth. Then she marked up my neck like she wanted to brand me.

I was shaking, not from fear, but from pain. Still, I heard the break in her voice: "Would it kill you to say one nice thing to me?"

Then her phone rang, sharp and shrill.

Ethan Miller's drunken voice poured out of the speaker. "Ms. Johnson... they're forcing me to drink—"

Emily's eyes locked on mine, feral. "Beg me," she whispered. "Beg me to stay."

A memory slammed into me—

That night.

Me, on my knees in the pouring rain, blood mixing with the storm.

Her, dry under an umbrella, telling the guards, "Throw him farther. He's filthy."

I grabbed her collar, words laced with venom. "You. Don't. Deserve. It."

She smiled—smiled—and said into the phone, "Be good. I'm on my way."

The door slammed shut.

Silence swallowed the room.

I slid my hand under the pillow, fingers brushing the diagnosis.

Stage four stomach cancer.

Three months left.

Perfect.

Maybe this time, the pain will finally end.

Sunlight had just begun to flood the apartment when my phone lit up with message after message.

Social media had exploded. Photos of Emily at last night's gala—fist clenched around some girl's collar, her designer makeup cracking under fury—were everywhere.

"Mr. Thompson!"

The second I opened the front door, a wave of reporters swarmed me.

Camera flashes hit like gunfire. A kid in thick glasses shoved a mic in my face.

"Sources say Ms. Johnson assaulted someone over Ethan Miller. As her husband—"

I lifted my arm to block the glare, my sleeve stained with lukewarm coffee from one overzealous journalist.

Two years into her jewelry empire, even Emily's scandals were tabloid gold.

"Move."

I shoved past them, dress shoes splashing through rain puddles.

The kid chased after me, sneakers slapping against wet pavement.

"People are saying you abandoned Ms. Johnson when she was broke—now you're clinging to her, refusing to sign the divorce—"

I stopped cold. He nearly crashed into me.

Snatching his press badge, I spotted a university meal card tucked inside—Ethan's campus.

Paint stains on his hoodie matched the acrylics from Ethan's studio.

"Ethan sent you?"

I let go. Watched him fumble like a guilty freshman.

"Tell your buddy this: Emily begged me to marry her."

A sudden warmth hit my collar. I looked down—blood.

One drop, then another, soaking through the fabric like red ink.

Silence fell. The kid squinted at me. "Faking illness now? What, a little nosebleed and—"

I wiped my mouth. My palm came away scarlet.

"Stage four bone cancer," I said flatly. "Want to see the paperwork?"

His jaw dropped. Earbuds slipped from his pocket—the same model Ethan always wore.

I turned toward the garage. Behind me, he muttered, "No way that's true..."

The garage was dark. The motion sensor hadn't worked in months.

I stood there for a long time, not moving.

Blood dripped from my nose onto the steering wheel, slow and steady, like red wine spilling over crystal.

Like it did at our wedding—

Before everything went to hell.