Chapter 1

On our wedding anniversary, I was diagnosed with late-stage stomach cancer.

I called Owen Green, my husband, who was the head of surgery, but when the call connected, all I heard was a woman's nasal, breathless gasps. "Dr. Green, be gentle. The gauze is about to fall off."

I clutched the diagnosis report, my fingers trembling so hard that my voice cracked. "Owen, I'm in pain. Can you come home?"

Owen's voice was flat, like he was reading from a medical chart. "Hazel, you'll make up any excuse to get me home. Winnie scraped her hand, and now you're pretending to have a terminal illness to get attention?

"If you really want to die, go do it somewhere else. Don't dirty up my place."

Then he hung up.

I looked at the blood I coughed up in the mirror. I didn't cry. I laughed instead.

If he wanted to save Winnie Knight's eyesight so badly, I would let her.

I signed the cornea donation form, naming Winnie as the recipient. The chief surgeon would be Owen.

I hoped his hands were as steady tomorrow when he cut out my eyes.

*****

I hurled my phone into the trash and stared at my reflection in the mirror. My face was very pale, drained of any sign of life, and my lips had lost all color.

It felt like a hand was wringing my stomach from the inside. I bent over, retching hard, and blood poured out of me. Chunks of dark red blood mixed with stomach acid covered the floor.

The sound of keys turning in the lock echoed from outside the door. Owen Green was back.

I hurriedly wiped the blood from my lips with my sleeve. Before I could clean up the mess on the floor, the door was shoved open.

Owen walked in, dressed in a crisp suit, carrying a pink lunchbox.

That was my lunchbox, the one I used to cook soup for him. Now it held nutritious soup for Winnie Knight.

As soon as he stepped inside, his eyes locked onto the pool of blood on the floor. His eyes held no concern, only loathing, like staring at garbage.

"Hazel, seriously? Are you so desperate for pity that you're even faking blood now?" He stepped right over the mess like it was nothing but filth, coming straight up to me.

He glanced down at me, eyes full of disgust, like I was some kind of dirty thing. "I told you, Winnie hurt her hand. She can't handle seeing blood. So what? You trashed the place for show?"

I gripped the sink for support, barely able to stay upright. The pain in my stomach had me unable to straighten my back, while cold sweat poured down my forehead.

"It's not chicken blood," I whispered, my voice faint.

Owen let out a cold laugh and slammed the lunchbox down on the sink. "Not chicken blood? So it's your blood? Then why are you still standing here?

"Hazel, you've cried wolf so many times that it's pathetic now. Last time you said you were dizzy, so I'd buy you a cake. The time before, you claimed you had a fever to keep me from spending time with Winnie on her birthday.

"And now it's blood? What's next? Are you going to tell me you're dying of some incurable disease?"

Every word he said felt like a needle, stabbing right into the places in my heart that ached the most.

I stared at the man I'd loved for seven years.

The boy who used to massage my belly whenever my period made me miserable, and who would carry me three blocks to buy me honey water, was long gone, lost somewhere in time.

Now, Owen was the renowned surgical genius, the devoted protector of Winnie. But for me, he was nothing like a husband anymore.

I tried to pull a smile, but it twisted into something uglier than crying. "What if I said it was true? What if I really was dying?"

Owen stared at me like I'd dropped the funniest joke he'd ever heard.

He clamped his hand around my chin, his fingers pressing so hard that I thought my jaw might shatter.

He tilted my head up, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Then go die already. Hazel, if you really died, I'd light up the sky with fireworks to celebrate finally shaking off you. You're nothing but a clingy, disgusting parasite.

"Drop the drama and mop up the floor. Winnie's eyesight has been getting worse lately. The doctor says she might need a cornea transplant. I don't have time to waste on your nonsense."

He let go of me and rubbed his fingers on his suit, like he'd touched something dirty. "Get this place cleaned up. I'm bringing Winnie over tomorrow to grab a few things. Don't let her see any of this gross red stuff."

With that, he turned and walked out without looking back.

I slumped onto the floor, the icy tiles chilling me to the bone. It turned out that to him, my life meant less than a single finger of Winnie.

I remembered what the doctor said. "It's the late-stage stomach cancer. The cells have already spread. At most, you have a month left."

A month was way too long. I didn't even want to live another day. Since she wanted my corneas and wanted me dead, I would give him exactly what she wanted.