Chapter 2

Around noon, as usual, I prepared a meal and headed to the office to bring Charlie his lunch.

I pushed open his office door and walked in. "Charlie, lunch is ready."

He glanced up, his brow immediately furrowing. "I told you not to run around. Why don't you ever listen?"

I forced an awkward smile. "I was worried you wouldn't like the cafeteria food."

He nodded slightly, dropping the subject.

Relieved, I carried the container to his desk.

All his favorite foods.

Charlie set aside his work, picked up his fork, and took a bite.

I remained standing beside him, quietly watching.

"Not eating?" His low voice snapped me back to the present, stirring memories of our school days.

Just as I was about to pull up a chair, the door suddenly swung open.

"Mr. Sanders, there's a document requiring your signature."

I stopped and turned toward the door.

There stood a woman with bronze skin and a tall, straight nose. Her eyes were slightly curved into a smile, revealing two delicate dimples and a row of sparkling white teeth.

I had to admit that she was truly more beautiful than I.

Noticing my stunned expression, Charlie offered a flat explanation, "This is Brynlee. You know her. She's been unemployed recently, so she's working as my temporary secretary."

"Oh," I managed, quickly changing the subject. "Please eat up. I just remembered something urgent. I should go."

Charlie didn't respond, his eyes fixed on me with an unreadable calm.

I grabbed my bag from the couch and walked straight out.

As I pushed the door open, I clearly saw the triumph flashing in Brynlee's eyes.

My father passed away in a car accident back when I was in high school.

It's been nearly ten years now.

Standing before his tombstone, gazing at his kind smile in the photo, I remembered his last wishes to me.

I recall the day of the funeral—the sky was a dreary gray, the air so heavy it was suffocating.

My mother held me, her cries heart-wrenching and raw.

I fought desperately to hold back my own tears.

She could break down, but I couldn't.

Because I had promised my dad that, no matter what, I would take care of Mom.

Lost in these memories, I didn't even realize I had started crying.

My knees buckled, and I placed the chrysanthemums I'd brought before his grave.

It seemed I was going to fail him after all.

At just twenty-six, I've been diagnosed with lung cancer. To put it bluntly, I was living on borrowed time. I wouldn't be able to keep my promise to care for Mom.

I went to see London. He was the only one who knew about my diagnosis.

Twenty years of friendship—I knew my secret was safe with him.

We sat in a café. He lifted his mug, took a slow sip, and frowned. "Are you really not going to reconsider?"

I knew what he meant. He wanted me to seek treatment.

I simply shook my head. "It's late stage." Even with treatment, it would be futile.

He let out a heavy sigh, his hands clenching and unclenching. "But at least he should know, shouldn't he? He's your husband."

"There's no need. His life is probably better without me in it."

"But you've loved him for ten years," London pressed.

The forced smile I'd been wearing finally faded. "Yeah. Ten years. That's long enough."

"And what about your mom?" London's brow was furrowed with worry. "You're her only daughter."

"I know," I said, a self-mocking twist to my lips. "So, will you check in on her sometimes? You know this is the first time I've ever asked you for anything."

London came from a good family; his parents ran a sizable company. But he was a free spirit, seemingly untethered by anything.

Perhaps it was the raw sincerity in my eyes that day, but he eventually gave a slow nod.

"Alright. But, Alana," he said, his voice dropping, "you have to get treatment, damn it."