Chapter 1
"Mr. Sterling, the funeral is over. Mrs. Sterling handled it as you instructed. Her brother managed the paperwork.
"She tried reaching you for days, but Ethan Cole blocked all her calls."
"She was running a fever of 104 degrees, lying in a ward alone. When she had to sign the surgery consent form, her hand was shaking so hard she could barely hold the pen."
*****
Alex Sterling stood at the office door, his key fob stinging his palm. He wore the navy cashmere coat Emma gave him last year, but now the fabric felt abrasive and coarse.
Dr. James Carter adjusted his glasses and pushed a medical file to the desk edge. The dim light from the window cast a hollow, blurring silhouette over his white coat.
Alex's throat worked, but no sound came. Chaos flooded his mind. "The funeral? Surgery consent? Why the hell did Ethan block her calls?"
But those questions were drowned by a freezing dread. He had missed something vital, something big enough to tear a hole in his stable world and rip it apart.
He'd come to see his wife after a twelve-day fallout. They'd fought over an old grudge, and he'd stormed out to his penthouse near the office.
Yesterday, Ethan interrupted a meeting to mention. "Mr. Sterling, your wife was admitted to Central General. It looks like a stomach bug."
Busy with Nova Entertainment's B-round financing terms, he merely grunted, thinking he'd drop by today to find a way to end this cold war.
Instead of a truce, he felt like he had just stepped into thin air.
The scent of antiseptic hit him as he headed toward the GI ward from memory.
His pace quickened, then slowed, his leather shoes echoing hollowly against the tiles.
He remembered that night. Emma sat on the sofa, her shoulders looking fragile. She was talking about her childhood home and her brother wanting more compensation for his "effort."
Alex was typing a crucial email, his fingers flying. "Handle the money yourself," he'd snapped impatiently. "Don't bother me with this."
Emma stayed silent for a long time before saying, "Alex, that's my mother. Your mother-in-law."
He'd slammed his laptop shut, a sudden rage boiling over. "Exactly! So handle it! I'm busy, Emma. Every minute I waste is money down the drain!"
He remembered her look—calm, like still water where something had flickered out. He didn't bother to look closer, simply grabbed his coat and stormed out.
For those twelve days, he didn't go home or receive a text. Busy with picky investors, he practically lived at the office. Irritation surfaced at midnight but was suppressed by urgent reports.
He assumed everything was under control. He thought Emma would always be there, like her sofa or lamp, waiting until he was done being busy.
A stomach bug? He didn't even ask which ward. He'd promoted Ethan from the ranks and let him filter out all "unimportant" distractions to maintain absolute focus.
Walking through the corridor, he pressed the elevator button with stiff fingers. Shadows flickered behind the glass doors of the closed wards.
The doors reflected a sharp, tailored CEO—the founder of Nova Entertainment—but the eyes in the reflection betrayed an unfamiliar confusion.
He remembered Emma mentioned her mother felt dizzy last month and wanted to bring her to the city for a check-up.
He'd been in a video call, wearing his headset, and had simply waved her off, telling her to stop talking.
Later, he'd messaged Ethan to find a nursing home. Ethan said they were on waiting lists. Alex glanced at the text and tossed his phone aside.
Mothers were a distant concept. His parents were long divorced and indifferent. He'd survived college alone and felt no connection to the role.
He treated his mother-in-law as a "domestic item" for Emma or Ethan to handle. It was the most efficient way to stay focused.
The elevator chimed on the fifth floor, and the hospital chaos spilled in—gurneys, IV stands, and hushed voices of whispering families.
He found Room 515. Through the half-open door, he could hear the faint, rhythmic hum of medical machinery.
He froze as the doctor's words replayed. "A funeral... Ethan blocked her... signing the consent form alone."
Dread seized him. This was no simple stomach bug. You don't sign those papers for a minor illness unless it's something much worse.
He shoved the door open.
The room held two beds. One was empty; the other was occupied by a small, fragile figure.
A heart monitor chirped. A pale hand reached out from beneath the sheets, connected to clear IV tubes dripping medicine.
It was Emma. Her face was as white as the pillowcase, her long hair spread across the pillow. Her lips were parched and bloodless.
In twelve days, she had withered away, her cheeks hollow and dark circles bruising her skin.
Alex was too stunned to move. This woman felt like a total stranger, making his chest tighten.
Was this really the Emma who kept their home spotless and ironed his suits in silence?
The Emma who gave him her life savings when his startup was failing and promised to support him?
Emma opened her eyes slowly. Her gaze drifted before finally settling on him.
There was no resentment or relief—only deep exhaustion and a numbing, hollow calm in her eyes.
She watched him then gave a faint shake of her head before closing her eyes again, as if looking at him took all her strength.
Alex was speechless. The controlling words he'd prepared died in his throat.
His expensive coat and mental tallies of valuations felt absurdly pathetic in this sterile, quiet room.
He sat beside the bed, the screech of his chair cutting the silence, but Emma didn't flinch.
"Emma," he rasped, his voice breaking. "What happened? Your mother? And what was this surgery for?"
Emma kept her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling slightly. After a long silence—so long Alex thought she wouldn't respond—her voice finally rose. It was weak, yet clear and hit him coldly. "Alex, you've come."
She paused, gathering her strength.
"My mother died three days ago from a brain hemorrhage; they couldn't save her upon arrival. Ethan said you were in an important meeting and couldn't be disturbed. I called three times—he rejected me every time. Your cell was off.
"My brother came from our hometown. We handled the funeral according to your previous wishes—simple and quiet. She was cremated, and her ashes are currently being kept at the funeral home.
"I was exhausted, having not slept for days. My immune system failed, and I caught an infection. It wasn't a stomach bug, but acute suppurative appendicitis with a rupture. It led to peritonitis and sepsis.
"I had already gone into shock once when they brought me in. They operated yesterday afternoon, removed my appendix, and cleaned out my abdominal cavity."
She spoke dispassionately, as if reciting someone else's history, without any tears.
"When the doctor asked for my family, I told him they were busy. So I signed the papers myself."
She stared blankly at the ceiling with empty eyes.
"Are you here to see a patient, Alex, or just...?"