She laughed—a cold, jagged sound. "Andrew, you really won't stop acting just to get some sympathy, will you?"
*Cancer.*
The word hit me like a physical blow.
I never thought the most vicious venom would come from the mouth of the woman I loved.
In that silence, the last ember of what I once called love flickered and died.
Three words. Flat. Final.
"Let's get divorced."
I didn't wait for a response. I ended the call.
The hospital became my world for the next seven days. White walls. Fluorescent hum. The sharp bite of antiseptic in every breath.
Alone.
Jade Henson didn't visit. Not once. No calls. No messages. Her social media told me everything I needed to know—a curated shrine to her "rediscovered youth," plastered with photos of champagne toasts and Max Pruitt's glowing new beginning.
It wasn't until I finished the discharge paperwork and dragged my unsteady body back home that I saw her again.
She lounged on the living room sofa in a champagne silk nightgown, legs crossed with practiced elegance, a fashion magazine splayed across her lap. The door clicked open.
She didn't look up.