Chapter 1

I always thought I would die peacefully, surrounded by loved ones who cared. Instead, I lay alone in a sterile hospital room, the antiseptic smell burning my nostrils as cancer slowly consumed me from within.

The window beside my bed offered a view of the outside world—people walking, living, breathing without effort. How I envied them. My fingers traced the IV line running into my arm, delivering medicine that only prolonged my suffering rather than curing it.

"You need to stop being so dramatic, Marie," Howard's mother had said just yesterday during her obligatory visit. "My friend's cousin had cancer twice and still managed to keep her house spotless. You've let everything go."

I'd been too weak to respond, too tired to defend myself against her relentless criticism. For a year, I'd endured her complaints—about my cooking, my appearance, how I was "neglecting" Howard despite barely being able to stand most days.

My husband was no better. When the doctor recommended I stop working six months ago, Howard had scoffed.

"And who's going to pay the bills? My salary alone won't cover everything plus your treatments."

So I'd continued working, dragging myself to the office on days when even breathing felt like an insurmountable task. I'd sit at my desk, swallowing back nausea, smiling weakly at concerned colleagues while Howard spent money on new golf clubs and weekend trips with "clients."

Only Susan had seemed to care. My best friend since college, she visited regularly, bringing flowers and holding my hand while I cried.

"You need to keep fighting, Marie," she'd say, her eyes brimming with what I thought was compassion. "You're stronger than you know."

I believed her. I trusted her. What a fool I was.

The door to my hospital room swung open, and Dr. Evans entered, his expression grim. I tried to sit up straighter, ignoring the sharp pain that lanced through my body.

"Mrs. Lewis," he began, clearing his throat uncomfortably. "I'm afraid there's an issue with your treatment plan."

Something in his tone made my heart sink. "What kind of issue?"

"Your insurance claims are being rejected. According to our records, your husband hasn't been making the payments for your extended care."

The room seemed to tilt around me. "That's impossible. Howard handles all our finances. He promised me everything was taken care of."

Dr. Evans looked away, unable to meet my eyes. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Lewis. Without payment, we can't continue your treatment beyond basic palliative care."

Rage, an emotion I'd suppressed for so long, bubbled up inside me. With trembling hands, I reached for my phone and dialed Howard's number. It rang and rang, eventually going to voicemail.

"He's probably in a meeting," I muttered, more to myself than to the doctor. But deep down, I knew better. Howard always answered his phone—unless he didn't want to.

Against medical advice, I checked myself out of the hospital that afternoon. The taxi ride home cost money I couldn't spare, but I needed answers.

Our house was quiet when I arrived, but not empty. A pair of red high heels—Susan's signature stilettos—sat by the door. My heart began to race, not from exertion but from a growing suspicion.

Slowly, painfully, I made my way down the hallway toward our bedroom. Voices drifted through the partially open door—Howard's deep baritone and Susan's melodic laugh.

"How much longer do you think she has?" Susan asked, her voice casual, as if inquiring about the weather.

"Doctor says a month, maybe less," Howard replied. "The insurance policy is all set. Two million dollars, and I'm the sole beneficiary."

"Smart move getting that policy last year before her diagnosis," Susan purred. "She never suspected a thing."

I stood frozen, my body numb with shock rather than illness.

"I just wish she'd hurry up and die already," Howard continued. "Playing the devoted husband is exhausting."

Susan's laugh cut through me like a blade. "At least you only have to see her occasionally. I'm the one visiting that depressing hospital, holding her hand while she cries about how grateful she is for our friendship. It's pathetic."

Something inside me snapped. I pushed the door open with all the strength I could muster.

They were tangled in the sheets of my marriage bed—my husband and my best friend—their expressions changing from shock to embarrassment to something like irritation at being interrupted.

"Marie!" Susan scrambled to cover herself. "You're supposed to be in the hospital. We were just—"

"Planning my death?" My voice was surprisingly steady. "Celebrating the insurance money you'll get when I'm gone?"

Howard didn't even try to deny it. "You weren't supposed to hear that."

"Clearly." I stepped further into the room, my legs threatening to give way. "A whole year, Howard. A whole year of suffering while you forced me to work, while your mother berated me for not being a good enough wife, and all along you were just waiting for me to die?"

Susan attempted to slip past me, grabbing her robe. "Marie, you're upset. You're not thinking clearly—"

I grabbed her arm, surprising even myself with my vehemence. "Don't you dare walk away from me."

She yanked free, stumbling backward. Howard rose from the bed, his face contorted with anger rather than shame.

"This is my house," he growled. "You need to leave."

"Your house?" I laughed, a hollow sound. "I've worked myself to death to help pay for this house while you were sleeping with my best friend!"

He advanced toward me, and for the first time in our marriage, I saw the full extent of his cruelty. "I said, get out!"

His hands connected with my shoulders, shoving me backward with surprising force. I felt myself falling, my weakened body unable to catch itself. My head struck the corner of the dresser with a sickening crack.

Warm blood pooled beneath me as I lay on the floor, my vision blurring. Through the haze, I saw Howard and Susan standing over me, neither moving to help.

"Oh my god," Susan whispered. "Is she...?"

"Don't touch her," Howard warned. "If anyone asks, she came home unexpectedly and fell. She was weak from the cancer. It was an accident."

As darkness crept in from the edges of my consciousness, their voices became distant echoes. My last thought wasn't of fear or pain, but of a burning, all-consuming rage. If there was any justice in the universe, I would find a way to make them pay for what they'd done.

Then, there was nothing but darkness.