Chapter 5

Andrew was in a meeting when Emma's reply came through. He glanced at his phone: [Yeah. I just wanted to take a break for a while.]

He stared at the screen for a few seconds before flipping the phone face-down on the desk. The meeting continued.

He listened to reports, made decisions, and signed documents with a stone face, just like any other day.

However, David Carter, his assistant of five years, noticed something was off.

He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but Andrew had spaced out twice during the meeting, something that had never happened in all the years they'd worked together.

After the meeting, David followed him back to the office and asked tentatively, "Mr. Lane, are you feeling alright today?"

"I'm fine," Andrew replied.

"And... how is Mrs. Lane?" David asked.

Andrew's pace faltered for a second. "She's away," he said after a pause. "She said she wanted to take a break for a while."

David remained silent.

He had worked for Andrew for five years and had known Emma just as long. In his mind, Emma was the perfect wife. She was gentle, attentive, and never one to complain.

No matter how late Andrew stayed at the office or how long he was away on business, she was always there, waiting without a word of protest.

But David also knew that this kind of "perfect" behavior wasn't normal. How could a normal person go through a marriage without ever venting their frustrations?

"Mr. Lane," David hesitated, "is everything alright with Mrs. Lane? She was at the hospital alone last week. I spotted her in the parking garage."

Andrew turned around to face David. "The hospital? Which one?"

"General Hospital. I saw her coming out of the outpatient building, and she didn't look so good," David replied.

Andrew frowned. He realized now that Emma had indeed lost a lot of weight lately. He'd just assumed she was on a diet. She'd gone on them occasionally in the past, even though he thought she was perfectly fine the way she was.

"Okay," he said.

Once David left, Andrew sat at his desk and pulled up Emma's number. He wavered for a long time before finally hitting dial.

But there was no answer. He tried again. Still nothing.

He set his phone down and opened his laptop to get back to work, but David's words, "She didn't look so good," kept playing on a loop in his head.

He picked up the intercom and called David. "Get me Emma's medical records from General Hospital for last week."

"Mr. Lane, that... that's private information. It won't be easy to get," David said.

"Then find a way," Andrew replied.

David was silent for a moment. "Understood."

Two hours later, David walked back into the office holding a folder. He looked shaken.

"Mr. Lane," he said, placing the file on the desk. "Mrs. Lane saw a gastroenterologist last week. She had a gastroscopy and a biopsy."

Andrew looked up at him. "And the results?"

David didn't say a word. He simply flipped to the final page and pushed it across the desk.

Andrew looked down.

[Gastric adenocarcinoma, late-stage, with peritoneal lymph node metastasis.]

He stared at the line for ages.

"Are they sure?" he asked, his voice sounding cracked and thin.

"It's a biopsy. It's the gold standard," David replied. "Mr. Lane, her condition is... It's critical. The specialists are recommending immediate hospitalization for chemotherapy."

Andrew remained silent. He sat there, clutching the report, his eyes fixed on the paper. His expression was dark and heavy.

"Does she... know?" he asked, though he knew how stupid the question was.

"She signed for the report herself," David said softly.

Andrew closed his eyes. The memory of that night slammed into his mind. She had been sitting on the sofa, so still, her voice so quiet it was as if she were afraid to disturb the air. "I want a divorce," she said.

And what had he said? "Suit yourself." Just two words.

He had been so preoccupied with a failed project that he hadn't given her a second thought. Now he finally understood. That wasn't a tantrum or a cry for attention. That was her getting her affairs in order.

"Get out," Andrew said, his voice low.

David turned and left, closing the door softly behind him.

The office became as silent as a grave.

Andrew sat motionless in his chair. He stared down at the pathology report; he recognized every word, yet when he put them together, they made no sense.

Late-stage stomach cancer. Emma. His Emma.

He suddenly remembered that last year, when she had a fever and called him, he said he was in a meeting and told her to go to the hospital alone.

Was he actually in a meeting? Yes.

Was it important? No.

He had simply grown accustomed to putting work first. He was used to Emma always being there, waiting in the shadows. He was used to her saying, "It's okay," "You go on with your work," or "I can handle it."

It had never crossed his mind that one day, she would stop waiting.

Andrew buried his face in his hands. He didn't cry. But his hands wouldn't stop shaking.