“No, nothing like that. Probably picked it up from someone at the office.”

I didn't think much of it.

The client was pushing harder and harder for drafts. A developer wanted a full master plan for a villa district, fifteen-day turnaround, three hundred thousand.

I took it.

Fifteen days. Three hundred thousand.

That meant at least sixteen hours a day at my desk.

I used a week of annual leave and locked myself in the study.

Eustace brought meals every day, left them outside the door, knocked twice, and walked away.

Sometimes I heard him on the phone in the hallway, voice low, too soft to make out the words, but the tone was easy. Smiling.

The same kind of smile he'd had when I first knew him.

Light. Happy. Unburdened.

He hadn't smiled like that in front of me in a long time.

Day seven.

Past midnight.

I stared at the dense web of lines on the screen, eyes so dry they felt scraped raw with sandpaper.

Then my throat went hot and metallic all at once.

I clamped a hand over my mouth and coughed.

My palm came away red.

Blood.

I stared at it for a few seconds, blank.

The first thought in my head wasn't “What's wrong with me” but “Eight days left. Can't fall behind.”

I pulled a tissue, wiped my hand clean, and kept drawing.

Two more hours. The blood came again.

More this time. It splattered across the keyboard and seeped into the gaps between the keys.

I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes for a while.

My heart was hammering, so fast it felt like it would punch straight through my throat.

I picked up my phone, meaning to message Eustace.

In the chat window, a text from him an hour ago：“Hey, I'll be back late tonight. Something came up at the office.”

I didn't think about it. Typed two words：“Okay.” Went back to drawing.

The next morning I collapsed on the bathroom floor.

By the time Eustace came home I was already conscious, crouched on the tiles scrubbing at the bloodstains.

He rushed over and caught my arm, his face white as paper.

“What happened to you?”

“It's nothing. Just my gums bleeding—I've been run down.”

He didn't believe me. But he didn't ask again.

“I brought you congee. Eat, then rest for a bit. Stop drawing.”

It was century egg and lean pork congee. I got two spoonfuls down before my stomach heaved and all of it came back up.

Eustace watched me retch, one hand rubbing slow circles on my back.

I heard his phone ring. He glanced at the screen and silenced it.

It rang again. He silenced it again.

The third time, he picked up and stepped out onto the balcony, voice pressed low.

“Didn't I say I'm at home……Yeah, I'll come later……Don't start.”

I'll come later.

Where?

To see who?

I didn't ask.

Because I was afraid to.

Afraid to hear the answer.

Afraid the worst answer was the real one.

Day fifteen.

I sent the final version of the plan to the client.

When I lifted my hand off the mouse, my whole arm was numb.

I stared at the screen and waited for a reply.

Five minutes. Ten. Twenty.

A message came through：“Plan received. Review meeting tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

If it passed review, the three hundred thousand was mine.

Add the hundred-odd thousand I'd saved, sell the little apartment my mother left me, scrape everything together, and maybe it would be enough.

I called my mother.

“Mom, I want to sell the old apartment.”

“Sell the apartment? What's happened?”

“Nothing's happened. I just……want to trade up to something bigger.”

My mother was quiet for a long time.

“Gayle, don't lie to your mother. You don't sound right.”

“Just a cold.”

“……All right. I'll go list it with the agency tomorrow.”

I hung up the phone. The tears came before I could stop them.

That old house—my parents had scraped together every penny to buy it. After my father died, my mother could never bring herself to let it go.

She said it was the last thing she still shared with him.

I sold it.

For Eustace.

Had I lost my mind?

Maybe.

But I loved him.

The day I married him, I made a vow: for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, I would never leave.

He needed me now. How could I not help?

I wiped my eyes and went back to the next proposal.

The next day, the client called—the proposal had been approved.

Three hundred thousand wired to my account.

I stared at the bank notification, my heartbeat slowing from a hammering rush until it settled into something quiet.

Still not nearly enough.

I sent the listing for the old house to the real-estate agent.

Then I texted Eustace：“The house sold. I put together eight hundred thousand from that, plus three hundred thousand from this job. Use it to pay off the debt first.”

He replied instantly：“Gayle, thank you. I'll remember what you've done for me for the rest of my life.”

Remember what I'd done for him for the rest of his life.

Gratitude was never what I wanted.

I just wanted him to be okay.

That evening Eustace came home early, carrying a bouquet.

Not roses. Lilies. My favorite.

He put them in a vase, then walked over and wrapped his arms around me from behind.

“Gayle, I want to show you something.”

He pulled out a small box and opened it. Inside was a necklace.

“That brand you said you liked—I could never afford it before, but now……I finally bit the bullet.”

I lowered my head and let him fasten it around my neck.

The chain settled against my collarbone, cool against my skin.

“Does it look good?” he asked.

“It's beautiful.”

“You're more beautiful than the necklace.”

Eustace kissed my earlobe.

For one moment I believed every bit of it had been worth it.

I was so wrong.

The necklace was fake.

I found out later that the one he bought for that woman was a limited-edition piece set with real diamonds. Mine was a knockoff.

Ninety-nine yuan. Free shipping.

But the necklace wasn't the only thing he lied about.

That night, Eustace went to shower and left his phone on the nightstand.

The screen lit up.

A message popped up from a contact saved as “Livvy”.

“That necklace today was so pretty. Thank you.”

My finger hovered above the screen.

I didn't tap it.

I set the phone back exactly where it had been, same angle, same position.

Not out of respect for his privacy.

Out of fear.

I was afraid that if I opened it, I'd have proof of everything I'd been trying not to see.

I wasn't ready.

I would never be ready.

Another week passed.

I added it all up. Between everything, I had wired Eustace close to two million.

Savings, project fees, the money from the old house—every source I had, scraped clean. And thirty thousand my mother had slipped to me in secret.

The money she had set aside penny by penny over years, I handed straight to Eustace.

I didn't know how I'd let myself go this far.

Probably because when I love someone, I don't keep count.

Day ten.

I took on another project, a mixed-use commercial complex, with a deadline of just twenty days.

The client pushed hard. I barely closed my eyes.

On the thirteenth day, I coughed up blood for the third time.

This time I didn't wipe it away.

I went to the hospital.

The doctor studied my CT scans, frowning.

“Have you been pulling all-nighters regularly?”

“Yes.”

“Severe anemia on top of pneumonia, and your heart is already showing early signs of failure. You need to be admitted right now. You keep this up, you're going to die.”

“Do I have to be admitted? I've got a project I need to finish.”

The doctor looked up at me. I will never forget that look as long as I live.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-seven years old. Heart failure, pneumonia, severe anemia. Do you understand what that means? It means if you keep pushing yourself like this, you might not make it to thirty.”

I lowered my head.

“I owe money.”

“What kind of money is worth more than your life?”

I didn't answer.

I got the prescriptions, paid for the medicine, and walked out. No admission.

At the register, my card had just over two thousand left. Eight hundred for the drugs. I gritted my teeth and paid.

The rest, I transferred to Eustace.

“This month's pay. Use it for the interest first.”

He took it.

Didn't even ask “is that enough for you to get by on”.

Sometimes, not asking is the answer all by itself.

But I refused to believe it.

The night I came home from the hospital, I took my temperature. 38.7°C.

Burning all over, yet shaking with cold. I curled up under the blanket, teeth chattering.

Eustace wasn't home. He'd been out every night that week for “business dinners”, never getting back before the small hours, reeking of alcohol and perfume.

I called him.

It rang a long time before he picked up. The background was loud on his end. Music, laughter, a woman's voice.

“Hello? Gayle?”

“I have a fever.”

“Did you take your medicine?”

“Yeah.”

“Then get some rest. I'm not done here yet. I'll be back later.”

He hung up.

Right before the line went dead, I heard a woman next to him say：“Who was that? God, it's the middle of the night—total buzzkill.”

I didn't call back to ask who she was.

Because I already knew.

I just didn't know how much strength I had left to face it.

A little after two in the morning, Eustace came home.

I heard the door open, heard him change his shoes, heard him walk into the bedroom and stop beside the bed.

He looked at me for a while.

Then he reached out and touched my forehead.

“You really do have a fever.”

He said it the way you'd note the weather—something that had nothing to do with him.

“Eustace.”

“Hm?”

“Are you hiding something from me?”

His hand pulled back from my forehead.

“No. Don't overthink it.”

“Then why do you smell like perfume?”

Silence.

Four or five seconds of it.

“Business dinner tonight. A client brought a date. Must've rubbed off.”

I opened my eyes and looked at him in the dark.

His outline was blurred, but I knew he was looking back at me.

We held each other's gaze for a few seconds.

Eustace looked away first.

“I'll go with you to the hospital tomorrow.”

“Don't bother. I'll go by myself.”

“Gayle, don't you trust me?”

You want me to trust you? Then do one thing—one—that's actually worth trusting.

I didn't say it out loud.

I turned over, putting my back to him.

Eustace didn't say anything else.

A long time later, I heard him go to the living room. Then the click of a lighter.

He never used to smoke.

When did that start?

I didn't know.

It felt like I didn't know anything anymore.

The answer came faster than I expected.

I didn't go looking for it. It came to me.

It was a Saturday. Eustace said he had to work overtime and left early in the morning.

I slept until noon, woke up so dizzy I had to brace myself against the wall just to make it to the bathroom.

The person in the mirror made me flinch. I'd lost at least ten pounds—cheekbones sharp under the skin, eyes hollow, lips cracked and peeling, dried blood crusted at the corners of my mouth.