The sharp smell of rubbing alcohol dragged me out of the darkness.

I blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights above me. My head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, and a sharp pain radiated from my right side.

"Ms. Rossi? Can you hear me?"

A man in a white coat stood at the foot of my bed, holding a clipboard.

"Where am I?" I croaked, my throat dry as sandpaper.

"City General Hospital," the doctor said. "You were brought in last night after a traffic collision. You have two fractured ribs and a minor concussion."

I shifted my weight, wincing as the pain flared in my chest. The memories rushed back. The hotel room. The wet sounds of David thrusting into Abby. The blinding headlights in the intersection.

"I want to go home," I said.

"You can't," he replied, his tone shifting. He stepped closer, his expression tightening into a grim line. "The injuries from the accident are manageable. But your routine bloodwork revealed something else."

"Something else?" I asked.

"Your white blood cell count is critically abnormal," he explained. "We ran further tests while you were unconscious. Ms. Rossi, you have acute leukemia."

The words hung in the sterile air.

"That's a mistake," I said.

"It isn't," he insisted. "The disease is progressing rapidly. You need a bone marrow transplant immediately. Without it, your internal organs will begin to fail. You are in very real danger of losing your life."

"How long do I have?"

"Weeks," he answered. "Maybe less if we don't start aggressive treatment today."

He handed me a thick manila folder. The diagnosis was printed in bold black ink across the top page.

I didn't cry. I didn't scream. My entire world had already been ripped apart twelve hours ago in room 314. This was just the final nail in the coffin.

"I need to go," I said, swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress.

"You are in no condition to leave!" the doctor argued.

"Watch me."

I ignored his protests, signed the discharge papers against medical advice, and walked out of the sliding glass doors.

The morning sun felt entirely too bright. I clutched the manila folder to my chest, my fractured ribs screaming with every step I took toward my apartment building. My fiancé had betrayed me, and my body was quietly killing me.

I pushed my front door open, expecting an empty apartment.

David sat on the velvet sofa, his head buried in his hands.

He shot to his feet the second the door clicked shut. His clothes were wrinkled, the same shirt he had worn to the hotel yesterday.

"Bianca!" he shouted, rushing across the living room. "Where the hell have you been? I called the police! I checked every friend's house!"

"Stay away from me," I warned, holding my free hand up.

David stopped in his tracks. He looked at my bruised face, then down at the hospital bracelet still wrapped around my wrist.

"You're hurt," he observed, his voice dropping. "What happened to you?"

"I got hit by a car running away from your cheating," I stated flatly.

"My god, Bianca, I am so sorry," he said, taking another step forward. "Let me help you sit down."

"If you touch me, I will scream until the neighbors call the cops."

David swallowed hard. He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Please, just let me explain. You have to understand why I did it."

"You tripped and your pants fell off?" I asked.

"Abby is dying," he blurted out.

The silence in the room became absolute. I gripped the edge of the folder tighter, the paper crinkling under my knuckles.

"What?" I asked.

"She has terminal cancer," David continued, his words spilling out in a desperate rush. "She moved back from Paris because the doctors there told her there was nothing left to do. She has maybe two months left."

"And her dying wish was to fuck an engaged man?"

"She was terrified!" David yelled, his face flushing red. "She reached out to me because I was her first love. She didn't want to die alone. I felt sorry for her, Bianca. I just wanted to give her some comfort in her final days."

"Comfort?" I let out a dry, bitter laugh. "You were raw-dogging her on the mattress I paid for. That's your version of palliative care?"

"It meant nothing!" he insisted. "It was just physical. She needed to feel alive, and I couldn't say no to a dying woman."

"I heard her crying in the hallway, David. She said you promised to break things off with me."

"I lied to her!" he defended, throwing his arms wide. "I told her whatever she needed to hear to keep her calm. I love you. You are the woman I am going to marry."

The audacity of his words made my stomach churn.

"You slept with her out of pity," I summarized.

"Yes," he agreed quickly, nodding his head. "Exactly. It was an act of mercy. Once she passes away, it will be over. We can move on. I will give you the most massive, beautiful wedding you've ever seen. We'll go to Italy for our honeymoon, just like we planned."

He actually believed he was the hero of this story. He thought his infidelity was a noble sacrifice.

My chest burned. The pain of my fractured ribs was nothing compared to the venom flooding my veins.

"You are disgusting," I whispered.

"I'm practical," he countered. "I'm dealing with a tragedy the best way I can. You need to be more understanding."

I looked down at the manila folder in my hands. The heavy black letters of my own death sentence pressed against my palms. Acute leukemia. Weeks to live.

I lifted my chin and locked my eyes onto his.

"What if it was me?" I asked.

David frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"If I were the one sick," I pushed, my voice trembling with suppressed fury. "If my organs were failing. If I only had weeks to live. Would you still be in that hotel room comforting her?"

"That's a ridiculous hypothetical," he deflected, looking away toward the window.

"Answer the question, David. If the doctor told me I was going to die this month, would you have left my side to go fuck your high school sweetheart?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His jaw worked silently. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unable to meet my gaze.

The hesitation was all the answer I needed.

Before I could tear into him again, a sharp ringing shattered the quiet.

David jumped. He pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen lit up with a hospital number.

He swiped the screen and brought the speaker to his ear. "Hello?"

A woman's panicked voice leaked through the receiver. "Mr. Miller? It's the oncology ward. Abby's condition just crashed. She's in emergency resuscitation right now."

David's face drained of all color.

"I'm on my way," he said.

He shoved the phone back into his pocket and sprinted toward the door. He didn't look at me. He didn't ask about my injuries again. He just grabbed his keys from the bowl and bolted out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

The lock clicked into place.

I stood alone in the center of the living room.

My fingers went numb. I slowly opened my hands.

The hospital folder slipped through my grip. It hit the hardwood floor, the white pages fanning out across the rug, displaying my test results for an empty room to see.

A single tear carved a hot path down my cheek.

If I only had a few weeks left on this earth, was I really going to spend them crying over a man who left me to die?

"You took too long, David. I was so scared."

The high-pitched whine drifted through the crack of hospital room 412. I froze in the hallway, my hand hovering over the door handle.

"I got here as fast as I could, baby," David replied.

I pushed the heavy door open.

There was no emergency team. No doctors shouting orders. No flatlining monitors.

Abby sat upright against a mountain of white pillows. Her cheeks were flushed a healthy pink. She wore a silk nightgown that dipped dangerously low, completely inappropriate for a dying woman. She held a plastic cup of apple juice.

David sat on the edge of her mattress, clasping her free hand in both of his.

"What is going on?" I asked.

David whipped his head around. He jumped up, dropping Abby's fingers. "Bianca? Why are you here?"

"You bolted out of our apartment like she was taking her last breath," I said, stepping into the sterile room. "She looks perfectly fine."

"I had a nightmare," Abby whimpered, shrinking back against the headboard. "I woke up in the dark. I couldn't breathe. The nurse said my heart rate spiked."

"A bad dream," I repeated. My voice sounded hollow, even to my own ears. "You abandoned me, injured and bleeding, because your mistress had a bad dream?"

"Don't call her that!" David snapped. He stepped between me and the bed, shielding her. "She's fragile, Bianca. The panic attack could have triggered a cardiac event."

"She's drinking apple juice, David."

Abby's lower lip trembled. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over her flawless makeup. "Why do you hate me so much? I'm just trying to survive my final days in peace."

"You want to talk about surviving?" I reached into my tote bag. My fingers brushed the smooth edge of the manila folder. I pulled it out and gripped it tight. "You want to know what sick actually looks like?"

"Stop yelling at her," David warned.

"I have acute leukemia," I said.

The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp.

David stared at me. The anger drained from his face for a split second, replaced by utter confusion.

"My organs are failing," I continued, my hands shaking as I held the diagnosis up. "I need a bone marrow transplant right now. The doctor gave me a few weeks to live."

Abby gasped, pressing a hand to her chest.

David looked at the folder. He didn't reach for it. Instead, his jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed into slits of pure disgust.

"When did you become this pathetic?" he asked.

My arm dropped slightly. "What?"

"Faking cancer?" David scoffed. He shook his head, running a hand through his messy hair. "Are you really that desperate for my attention?"

"Look at the paper, David! It has my name on it. It's from City General!"

He swatted my hand away. The folder hit the linoleum floor, scattering the white pages across the room.

"I'm not looking at your forged documents," he growled. "Abby is actually dying. She is fighting for her life every single day. And you barge in here, making up a terminal illness just to steal her spotlight? To make her feel guilty?"

"David, make her leave," Abby cried, burying her face in her hands. "She's stressing me out. My chest hurts."

"I'm not lying!" I shouted, tears finally breaking through my defenses. "I am dying!"

"Get out, Bianca," David ordered, pointing a rigid finger at the door. "You sicken me. Don't ever contact me again."

He turned his back on me and wrapped his arms around Abby, pulling her into a tight embrace.

I stared at the man I loved. He didn't even look over his shoulder.

I left the papers on the floor. I turned around and walked out of the room.

The automatic doors of the hospital lobby slid open, letting the cold New York wind hit my face. I wrapped my thin jacket tighter around my ribs. The pain in my side flared, a sharp reminder of the car accident.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

I pulled it out. The screen flashed with my mother's name.

I swiped to answer. "Mom?"

A loud, guttural sob pierced my ear. "Bianca."

"Mom, what's wrong? Why are you crying?"

"It's over," she wept. "The company is gone."

I stopped walking. "What do you mean gone? What about the new investors?"

"They pulled out this morning," she explained, her voice cracking. "All of them. The bank called in the loans an hour ago. We have zero capital left. We're bankrupt."

"Where is Dad?" I demanded.

"He collapsed in the boardroom," she cried. "He hasn't slept in four days trying to fix this mess. The ambulance just took him to Mount Sinai. He's in the ICU, Bianca. We're going to lose the house. We have nothing."

The sidewalk spun beneath my feet.

"I'll be right there," I whispered. "I'll figure something out."

"Hurry," she begged, before the line went dead.

I lowered the phone. The lie tasted like ash in my mouth. I couldn't figure anything out. I was dying. My fiancé had abandoned me for a fraud. My family was ruined. My father was fighting for his life.

I had nothing left to give.

I wandered aimlessly down the street, the neon signs of the city blurring into streaks of color. The cold wind ripped through my clothes, but I barely felt it. My soul felt completely hollow.

A green metal trash can sat on the corner of 5th Avenue.

I pulled the spare copy of my hospital discharge papers from my pocket. The bold black letters mocked me. Acute leukemia.

What was the point of treatment? Why fight for a few extra weeks in a world that had completely destroyed me?

I held the papers over the trash can.

A low hum vibrated through the pavement.

A sleek, custom-built black Rolls-Royce glided to a stop right in front of me. The tires barely made a sound against the asphalt. It blocked the crosswalk entirely.

The tinted rear window lowered with a soft hum.

The streetlights illuminated the man sitting in the backseat.

Silas Blackwood.

Everyone in New York knew that face. He possessed a sharp, unforgiving jawline and eyes as cold as black ice. He was the ruthless billionaire who controlled half the city's real estate and crushed his rivals without a second thought. A man who operated entirely in the shadows.

His dark gaze locked onto my face, then drifted down to the medical papers trembling in my fist. He looked exactly like a predator who had finally cornered his prey.

He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't offer a polite greeting.

"Get in the car," Silas commanded.

"I don't know you," I said, taking a step back.

"Get in," he repeated, his tone dropping into a dangerous, magnetic rumble. "From now on, your life belongs to me."

Did I have a choice, or was I just trading one nightmare for another?