Chapter 1
Emma Reed folded the diagnosis and tucked it into the deepest pocket of her bag.
Standing at the end of the hospital corridor, she looked out at the March dust storm swallowing Capital City. The sky was a sickly yellow, the color of old news.
The words on the gastroscopy report had already burned into her mind after three reads: [Gastric adenocarcinoma with peritoneal lymph node metastasis (late stage).]
The doctor hadn't pulled any punches, though he'd phrased it gently. Surgery was a long shot, chemotherapy might buy her three to six months, and it was time to get her affairs in order.
Emma was calm. She even managed a small smile, said, "Thank you, doctor," and stood up to tuck her chair back under the desk.
As she stepped out of the hospital, the grit-laden wind stung her face.
Waiting for a cab by the curb, her mind drifted back five years, to the afternoon she first met Andrew Lane. She had just arrived in the city, a green administrative assistant at Lane Enterprises.
The sun had been brilliant that day. He walked through the revolving doors in a charcoal suit, his expression cold and detached. Three executives trailed him, hanging on his every word, but he didn't spare them a single glance.
Emma had stood at the front desk, clutching a coffee she'd prepared for him, her heart beating out of her chest.
Looking back, that was probably the peak of her own stupidity.
*****
A cab pulled up. Emma got in and gave the driver the address to Andrew's house—no, their house.
Outside, the world was a blur of dust. She leaned back against the seat as her stomach began to ache again. It wasn't a sharp pain; it was dull and heavy, like a hot iron slowly grinding across her abdomen.
The doctor had prescribed painkillers, but she hadn't taken any yet. It wasn't that she didn't want to; she'd simply grown used to the pain.
Three years of marriage to Andrew, preceded by two years of chasing him like a shadow, five years in total, had turned pain into a habit.
She was used to the stomach cramps, used to the loneliness of waiting for him, and used to the cold "I'm busy" he used to shut her out. Even the bitter ache of being ignored had become par for the course.
*****
Emma reached home at 4:00 PM. Andrew wasn't there. The housekeeper mentioned he had a business dinner and wouldn't be back for a meal.
Emma simply nodded. She went upstairs, changed, and opened her laptop. She searched "late-stage stomach cancer life expectancy," then closed the tab.
There was no point. She knew the writing was on the wall.
She opened the drawer, took out her ID and marriage license, and found a template for a divorce agreement. She sat in the study, filling it out in silence.
In the section for asset division, she wrote: [No disputes over communal property. The wife voluntarily waives all claims.]
The house was Andrew's, the cars were Andrew's, and the company was Andrew's. In three years of marriage, she had never asked for a thing. They hadn't even had a wedding.
On the day they registered their marriage, Andrew had headed straight to the office from city hall. He didn't get home until 11:00 PM and then tossed her a credit card and told her to "buy whatever you need."
Emma had tucked the card away and never swiped it once. She supported herself on her salary as an admin manager, covering the utilities, the groceries, and even the housekeeper's wages.
Andrew probably never knew about any of this.
His shirts were always ironed and hanging in the closet. Breakfast was on the table at 7:00 AM sharp. His suitcase was always packed to perfection before business trips.
To him, it was probably as natural as breathing, something that just happened without effort.
Emma finished the agreement, printed it out, and signed her name. Then she went to the kitchen. She washed and chopped the ingredients for the evening soup before putting them in the refrigerator.
She worked with painstaking care, as if she were completing her final shift.
At 11:00 PM, Andrew returned.
He was on the phone as he walked in, his voice low and clipped, discussing projects and equity. He didn't even glance at Emma as he kicked off his shoes and headed straight for the stairs.
Emma sat on the living room sofa, the divorce papers gripped in her hand. "Andrew."
He paused and turned to look at her.
At 33, Andrew stood tall at six-foot-one with broad shoulders and long legs. His features were sharp, and when his lips were pressed together, he looked as cold as a sheathed blade.
He was wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up today, revealing the clean lines of his forearms.
He was handsome. Still so handsome.
Emma thought to herself that she'd probably wasted five years of her life just because she was a sucker for a pretty face.
"I want a divorce." Her voice was quiet, her tone as casual as if she were asking what he wanted for dinner.
Andrew frowned. He set his phone down, turned around, and towered over her. "Are you quite finished?"
Emma didn't say a word. She simply placed the divorce papers on the coffee table and pushed them toward him.
Andrew glanced down. He didn't bother picking them up, but his eyes caught the line "voluntarily waives all claims to assets."
His frown deepened.
"Emma, I've had a long day. I don't have the time or the energy for your mood swings," he said, loosening his tie. "We'll talk about this tomorrow."
He turned to leave.
Emma stayed seated on the sofa, not going after him like she used to.
Before, she would have gone after him, held onto his sleeve, and gently said, "You should rest first. I'll talk to you tomorrow."
But today, she didn't.
"I've already signed," she said. "Just leave it on the coffee table once you're done. I'll take it to the courthouse tomorrow."
Andrew's footsteps faltered. He finally turned back, walked over, and picked up the agreement, scanning it for a few seconds.
Then he looked her in the eye. There was no panic in his gaze, no trace of regret, only a flicker of annoyance and confusion.
He looked at her as if she were a math problem he couldn't solve and couldn't be bothered to try.
"Why?" he asked.
Emma thought for a moment before answering, "I'm just done." Her words were as light as air.
Andrew stared at her for a while before tossing the papers back onto the table. "Suit yourself." He turned away and walked upstairs.
Emma sat in the living room, listening to his footsteps fade away, followed by the sound of the master bedroom door closing.
She looked down at the agreement. Her fingers curled slowly, her nails digging into her palms.
It hurt. But compared to the pain in her stomach, it was a drop in the bucket.
Taking a deep breath, she stood up and went to the kitchen to check the ingredients one last time.
The steaks were fresh, the potatoes were peeled and soaking in water, and the sprigs of rosemary were set aside on a small plate.
She would get up early tomorrow to put the roast in the oven, and then she would leave.
This would be the last meal she ever made for Andrew.