Chapter 4

In the past, I might have caused a scene. I might have clung to Charlie's arm and loudly staked my claim.

But now, I accepted the situation with a strange calm. I even asked them politely if they were hungry.

Charlie's brow furrowed deeply. He stayed silent, his mood seeming dark.

Brynlee laughed lightly, breaking the tension. "Mr. Sanders, I skipped breakfast, I'm actually pretty hungry. Why don't we all eat together?"

Charlie glanced down, giving a noncommittal grunt that revealed nothing.

Watching them turn their backs to me, a wave of sadness washed over me.

Brynlee was vibrant and socially adept, a natural charmer.

Compared to her, I felt I had no advantages.

Her effortless appeal, their time spent working closely together, it seemed almost inevitable that Charlie would gravitate toward her.

We ended up at a restaurant, Charlie's choice.

Brynlee's face fell noticeably as we entered. She tugged at Charlie's sleeve. "Mr. Sanders, you know I prefer spicy food."

"Oh," he paused, glancing at her. "We're here now. Let's try something different for a change."

He then looked back at me, his tone tinged with impatience. "Why are you walking so slow?"

I coughed lightly, responding, "Coming."

Suppressing a sharp pang of pain, I quickened my pace to catch up.

Charlie stared at me, his frown deepening.

As I stopped in front of him, pretending everything was fine, I asked, "Shall we go in?"

He looked down, pulled a tissue from his trouser pocket, and handed it to me. "You're sweating. Wipe your forehead."

I was taken aback for a moment before accepting it. "Thank you."

During the meal, Brynlee seemed unwell.

She was listless, slumped over the table without any energy.

Charlie noticed, of course. "Are you sick?" he asked.

She shook her head. "It's just my low blood sugar. I woke up late and didn't have time for breakfast this morning, so..."

Frowning, Charlie took out his phone, made a call, and gave some quiet instructions.

I was sitting further away, and wracked with my own pain, I didn't catch what he said.

But when the food arrived, I understood.

The table was covered with spicy dishes, each layered with red chilies.

The moment the spicy aroma hit me, I felt a wave of nausea.

Charlie's frown intensified. "What's wrong with you now? Can't handle the spice?"

I shook my head. "I'm just not hungry. I had a big breakfast, and I ate a little at my mom's earlier..."

"Fine, whatever. I don't need an explanation," Charlie cut me off impatiently, though I wasn't sure what I'd done to provoke him.

Then again, his temper was always short.

"I'm going to the restroom," I said, standing up.

He grunted in acknowledgment.

I turned away quickly, feeling the bone-deep pain growing sharper.

In the toilet stall, I saw it—a trace of blood tainting the water in the bowl.

It was unmistakable.

I was passing blood.

I studied medicine in college. I knew exactly what this meant for someone with lung cancer. Once I reached this stage, the disease was undeniably in its final, late phase.

Splashing cold water on my face, I found I had already accepted this reality.

There was no shock, just a calm resignation as I awaited the end.