Chapter 1

Eight years of marriage, and I'd become nothing more than a ghost in Alex Morrow's house.

He treated Mandy Reid with endless tenderness, but when I was on the verge of collapse, begging for help, he dismissed it as me being dramatic.

I handed him the divorce papers and told him I'd be gone for good in twenty-eight days.

He scoffed, thinking I was playing hard to get again.

On the twenty-eighth day, the final countdown, he cried his eyes out at the airport, begging me not to leave.

Tears streamed down his face as he let go of all his pride.

He thought I was heading to Patrinford to start a new life.

But he didn't know that I had chosen that place to be where it all ended for me.

Some things couldn't be brought back over tears, like a broken heart or a withering life.

*****

"I've signed the divorce papers," I said. "In twenty-eight days, I'll be gone for good."

I pushed the documents toward Alex, my fingers steady.

He was still busy texting Mandy, not glancing my way.

The lawyer, Samantha Todd, stood next to me, her briefcase stuffed with everything that proved we were nothing but strangers.

"Leave it there," Alex said.

He grabbed his jacket and headed for the door, his tone dismissive. "Mandy's waiting downstairs for me to go to the art show.

"She gets carsick, so I can't keep her waiting. Anything else?"

I grabbed my coat.

The November chill in Loverto seeped in through my collar, making my bones ache.

I said, "A heads-up. My spouse visa is tied to you.

"Once the divorce is filed, the Home Office gives me twenty-eight days to leave the country.

"After that, I'll never set foot in Loverto again."

I turned and walked away.

My heels clicked against the marble floor, sharp and brittle, like shards of glass.

As I reached the door, I heard him scoff. "Norah, don't play hard to get with me.

"If you want money, name your price. 1.5 million dollars? Three million? Don't waste my time."

I didn't look back.

I pushed the door open, and the rain slapped against my face, icy and sharp.

Only then did I let myself cry.

Samantha handed me a tissue. "Are you sure about this? His offer is pretty good."

I shook my head. "If I were after money, I never would've married him when he was flat broke."

That was true.

I'd loved him for twelve years.

I'd been in love with him ever since I first laid eyes on him at Catilora's orientation party back in 2014.

He was wearing a pair of faded jeans, standing out among a sea of rich kids in designer suits, his eyes shining.

And I was a down-and-out countess, clinging to a useless title and drowning in debt.

I thought we were kindred spirits.

I chased after him for four years.

When he burned the midnight oil working on his papers, I'd sit on the library steps, waiting for him until way past midnight.

When he got pushed around at his part-time job, I'd storm up to his boss and confront him.

When his mom was in the hospital, I stayed by her side for a whole month, handling everything, even the dirty work.

Everyone thought we'd end up together.

Even his mom would grab my hand and say, "Norah, if he dares to mess with you, tell me. I'll break his legs myself."

That was until Lawrence Kennedy died.

Lawrence, his childhood friend, was swept away by the waves while trying to save him.

With his dying breath, he clutched Alex's hand and pleaded, "Alex, promise me you'll take care of Mandy."

From that moment on, Mandy was all that mattered to Alex.

He bought Mandy a Chanel bag with the first money he made.

The first house he bought was in Mandy's name.

He gave all his tenderness and patience to Mandy.

I was nothing but a shadow in his life.

I thought if I kept making myself small, maybe he'd finally let me in.

But I was wrong.

I was so wrong.

Five years ago, Alex's mom was dying from late-stage lung cancer.

On her deathbed, she forced him to promise, "If you don't marry Norah, I won't rest in peace."

He nodded.

That day, I locked myself in the bathroom and cried for an hour.

I thought the clouds had finally parted and the moon was shining through for me.

Eight years of marriage, and I'd basically become his unpaid housekeeper.

His stomach was always a mess, so I'd be up at five every morning, cooking soup to help him feel better.

He loved spicy food and fresh food, so I spent eight years perfecting my cooking for him.

He couldn't sleep at night, so I'd wait up for him, make him warm milk, and only after he finally drifted off did I let myself sleep.

But he still didn't come home.

When Mandy wanted to see the Northern Lights, he walked away from a deal worth hundreds of millions to take her to Estinville for two weeks.

When Mandy said she hated me, he could go three whole months without saying a word to me.

I put up with it all.

I thought that if I waited a little longer, he might come back to me.

Three months ago, one day, I had a splitting headache, feeling like being stabbed by thousands of needles, and everything went dark.

I struggled to call Alex, asking him to take me to the hospital.

The background was noisy. I could hear people singing, "Happy Birthday."

Alex sounded impatient. "Norah, can you stop making a fuss? It's Mandy's twentieth birthday. If it's just a headache, call an ambulance yourself, okay?"

Then he hung up.

I lay there on the freezing floor, staring blankly at the ceiling, feeling the cold seeping into my bones.

At that moment, something inside me broke. I finally gave up on him.

It turned out that twelve years of loving him meant nothing compared to Mandy's birthday.

By the time the ambulance showed up, I'd lost consciousness.

When I woke up, Jeremy Pearson was standing by my bed, looking serious.

Jeremy used to be my junior back in college, now the youngest neurosurgery director at St. Thomas Hospital.

Jeremy said quietly, "Norah, it's a grade IV glioblastoma in your brainstem. It's inoperable.

"At most, the experimental drugs could buy you three to six months."

I spent the whole afternoon sitting in the hallway, holding the diagnosis.

I didn't cry or freak out.

All those years I kept fighting for turned out to be nothing but a cruel joke.

I had three months left to live, and I was still hoping for love from someone who never cared about me.

That night, I called Samantha.

I said calmly, "Please draft the divorce papers for me.

"I don't want his money, his house, or his car.

"All I want is my freedom."

All I wanted was my freedom. As for his love, I'd stopped caring about that ages ago.

Would he ever regret it? I didn't know, and I didn't care.