The day I found out I had a brain cancer, I was sitting on the steps outside Saint Gabriel’s Clinic, staring at the positive pregnancy test like it was some kind of cosmic joke.

My phone buzzed. It was Zeus Lambert—my boyfriend of seven years.

He didn’t even say hello.

“Savannah, I’ve been thinking… maybe we should push the wedding to next year, yeah? When things settle down with the club.”

I didn’t even flinch. “Y-yeah. Sure.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to. I do. You know I do, right? Just bad timing right now.”

I could tell he didn’t expect me to just roll with it. There was this long pause before he muttered something about business at the club and hung up. No “I love you,” not even a “see you later.”

Seven years. Seven damn years. We’d built everything together—our import front, the real estate flips, even the nightclub in Midtown. Just last year, we finally turned a profit. Got ourselves a nice car, and that loft in Tribeca waiting on renovations. If I hadn’t gotten sick… maybe next year I’d have a little baby in my arms.

My baby. Our baby.

But tonight? Zeus wasn’t coming home.

I made myself a bowl of pasta, tossed in some greens, sat in silence at the kitchen table—thinking about how the hell I was gonna tell him…

We made a promise last year. Ring on my finger before the next spring. That’s what he said. “Before the spring, Savannah. I swear on my name.”

I remembered what the doctor told me… She said I should think about not keeping the baby. Said I needed to focus on treatment. That I was young. “You’ve got a real good shot, Savannah. Don’t be scared.”

After five hours of sitting on the sofa, watching the endless darkness, the doorbell rang. Strange—Zeus never rang. He just walked in. I opened the door and there he was—half-drunk, practically draped over Zoraya.

Yeah. Zoraya. The new girl Zeus hired last year. Fresh out of college. Thought she’d be harmless.

“Hey, Savannah,” she chirped, steadying him. “We were out with that client from Atlantic City. Mr. Lambert had a little too much to drink. His car’s downstairs—I figured I’d help him up.”

She was all flushed cheeks and perfect curves in that tight little floral dress. Smelled like orange blossoms and sugar lies.

Zeus slumped on the couch, out cold. I took his jacket from her. The scent of her perfume clung to it—something citrusy and young. Not mine.

“Appreciate it, Zoraya,” I said, keeping my voice level. “It’s late. I’ll drive you home.”

She protested, all sweet and naive. “Oh, no, really—I can call a cab—”

“Not happening,” I cut in. “A girl like you, this late in the city? I’m not letting you ride alone.”

In the car, she glanced over at me, fiddling with her phone. “So… you and Zeus—when’s the big wedding?”

I paused, remembering that call from earlier. “Maybe a year or two,” I said, forcing a smile. “Once things settle down at the business.”

…Or once I figure out if I’ll even live that long.

“Got it,” she said softly, turning to stare out the window. She didn’t say much after that.

When I dropped her off, she waved awkwardly and thanked me again. I gave her a tight smile and watched until she was inside.

I sat there for a moment, engine humming. I told myself I’d run into the pharmacy—grab some hangover meds for Zeus, maybe ginger ale if I was feeling generous.

I reached for my purse. Realized it had slipped off the seat into the floorboard. When I bent down to grab it, my hand brushed against something jammed in the seatbelt slot.

A torn condom wrapper.

Slick, cheap foil. Lube grease smeared my fingers.

I stared at it, numb.

Zoraya’s tight dress. Her flushed cheeks.

The fake concern. Zeus slurring, pretending to be drunk. That call earlier—his voice full of hesitation and bullshit. And just like that, I knew.

Didn’t even know where the hell to begin.

Zeus and I’d been together since freshman year. Back then, I was grinding shifts at a 24-hour diner a few blocks from campus, scraping together tuition one plate at a time.

Zeus?

He was already Mafia royalty. Loaded, tall, and infuriatingly persistent. The first night he walked into the diner, he ordered the greasy lamb gyros and damn near gagged on them. But he kept coming back. Every single night. For an entire half year. Said he had a “business reason.” Funny. He was trying to get my number.

The night I finally caved and agreed to date him?

He scarfed down three gyros like a man on a dare—then puked his guts out in the alley behind the place. To this day, the smell of tzatziki sauce makes him gag.

Zeus always said I was too proud. So instead of flexing his bank account, he’d sit beside me in the campus cafeteria, slipping protein bars and fruit into my bag when he thought I wasn’t looking.

“What if my future wife passes out from low iron?” he’d grin. “Can’t have that, now can we?”

Honestly? I never really got why Zeus liked me.

He was six-two, sharp jaw, power in every step. Name carried seven. Cash flowed like wine.

And me? Just some waitress with no family, no name, and a whole lot of pride.

But once he made up his mind, nothing—and I mean nothing—could move him.

I still remember that Christmas Eve he brought me to meet his parents. I was stiff as a board in my knock-off wool coat, holding a plastic-wrapped chocolate cake I bought with tip money.

His parents were cold but polite. The kind of polite that makes your skin crawl.

When dinner ended, one of the maids whispered something to his dad, and he tapped Zeus’s arm with his hawk-like fingers.

“Come,” he said.

I sat alone in that glittering room, feeling like a stain on their marble floor. Then I heard his voice from the hall.

“She knows who you are, doesn’t she? What do you think a girl like that wants from you? A gold digger! She has nothing to offer—no name, no bloodline!”

It felt like someone punched me in the lungs.

Then—bam. A door slammed.

Zeus stormed back in, jaw clenched tight, grabbed my hand like he was ready to burn the whole damn place down.

“We’re leaving!” he said.

“Zeus—” his Dad roared, “Walk out that door and you’re done. Don’t expect a dime. Don’t call. Don’t even think about this family ever again!”

He froze at the door for just a second. Then turned, grabbed the sad little cake from the table, and tossed it right at his feet.

“Then I disowned myself!” he growled.

The streets outside were dead quiet, snow crunching beneath our boots. Subway had stopped. Taxis were ghosts. We walked across the overpass to some budget hotel, wind screaming through the city like it was trying to rip us apart.

All around us, windows glowed warm, like distant stars. But none of those lights were mine.

I kept my eyes on the sidewalk and whispered, “Let’s break up, Zeus.”

He said nothing.

“Zeus, I—”

He yanked down his coat zipper, wrapped it around both of us, and pulled me into him. His arms locked tight around my waist like if he let go, I’d slip into the night.

Then, quiet and fierce against my skin, he said:

“Savannah Smith, I swear on my name—I’ll give you a home. No matter what it costs me.”

I smiled bitterly.

When I got back to the apartment, he was passed out on the couch, snoring softly. The TV was still on—muted, casting blue shadows across his face. I tucked a blanket around him, careful not to wake him. He looked so damn peaceful it made my chest ache.

Peaceful—like he hadn’t shattered me just hours ago. His phone buzzed. Two unread messages.

Both from Zoraya.

“She made sure I got home safe, don’t worry Mr. Lambert! ”

“Goodnight, see you tomorrow! ”

My hands shook. I told myself to let it go. That I was being paranoid. But my thumb didn’t listen.

It hovered. Then tapped. I scrolled up.

“You left a mark on my thigh It’s still sore.”

“You liked it.”

“Obviously. I was soaking through my underwear before you even touched me.”

And then the photo dropped in. Blurry. Low light. But unmistakable. Her on his desk. Hair messy. Bra pulled down. The corner of his nameplate visible in the background. Our office. The one we built.

A buzzing started in my ears.

“Remember the way I moaned when you whispered my name?”

“Like music.”

Then another line. Time-stamped. Same day I was curled up in bed, head splitting, shivering through a fever.

“She’s sleeping. I told her not to come in today.”

“Good. I want you to taste me without rushing this time, Zeus.”

And I just… stopped. Tears slid down my face before I even realized I was crying. They dripped onto the phone screen. Onto her skin. Onto his words.

I tried to breathe. But it felt like my lungs were full of stones. I stared at him, slumped on the couch—lips parted, completely unaware. I tried to speak. Tried to say his name. Tried to scream.

But nothing came out. Then I stood. Walked to the study like a ghost in my own home.

Opened the drawer. Pulled out the pregnancy test and the crumpled report with the diagnosis still circled in red ink. I slid them under the ledger. Buried them. I didn’t want to see them. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

Behind me, Zeus stirred. Made a noise in his sleep. I looked back at him, my heart like glass underfoot. And in that moment, I knew:

He would never be the same man again.

And neither would I.

---

By seven, I heard him stir.

Zeus walked in, rubbing his temples like he’d just come down from something hard. He looked like the kind of man who ran a crew—sharp gray slacks, sky-blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the tattoos creeping down his forearms.

That face…

Even after everything, it still hit me. That stupid, dangerous, beautiful face.

He saw me at the desk, eyes bloodshot, and slowed his steps. His whole expression shifted, just for a second.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Nothing. Think I’m gonna take some time off work.”

“You don’t need to work, Sav. I got us.”

His hand reached out to ruffle my hair—this old habit from back when things were simple.

I moved away before he touched me. His hand just… hung there for a moment. Then dropped.

He tried again. “You okay?”

I didn’t answer that. Truth was, I’d been tired for a long time.

---

I started working part-time in college—graveyard shifts at a 24-hour diner, dealing with drunk assholes and creeps with wandering hands. Every dime went toward rent and food.

When Zeus cut off his old man and walked away from the Lambert empire, we had nothing. We shared a shoebox apartment above a laundromat. Cockroaches. Thin walls. Gas stove that worked sometimes.

He had a dream, so I made it mine, too.

I’d commute two hours just to save on rent. Woke up at five. Caught the first train. Worked till midnight, came home, washed off the city grime, and passed out cold.

I kept us afloat while he built the business—ran money drops, did “quiet favors” for old contacts, took meetings in dark basements with men who didn’t shake hands unless they were holding a weapon.

And now? We're rich… but I am now... tired. Tired in a way sleep wouldn’t fix.

I didn’t even realize I was crying until I felt Zeus’s thumb brushing my cheek.

“Hey… What’s wrong, baby? Why are you crying?”

I shook my head, voice low. “I don't know. Just tired, Zeus. Tired of running. Tired of pretending everything’s fine.”

I leaned into him, and for a second, it felt like it used to—like the world was small and simple and safe. He wrapped his arms around me, warm and familiar, and I closed my eyes.

“Zeus…” I whispered. “Can you stay with me today?”

If he stayed—if he chose me, just this once—I swore I’d let it all go. I’d forget the texts, the pictures, the lies. I’d bury the betrayal so deep it’d never touch daylight again. I wouldn’t mention Zoraya. Wouldn’t bring up the wrapper, or the desk, or how he left me sick and alone. I’d forgive him. Because I loved him.

But then his phone buzzed in his pocket. He looked at the screen—face blank, unreadable.

Then without a word, he stepped away from me. Just a few paces. But it felt like a chasm opened between us.

He answered. Then I heard her voice, tinny but unmistakable through the receiver.

Zoraya. “I’m vomiting, Zeus,” she said, her voice shaky. “I think I’m pregnant… Can you come with me to the clinic? I’m scared.”

My ears rang. My vision blurred, like my body was trying to protect me from hearing the rest. He turned slightly, like he might check if I was listening—then walked farther into the hallway, lowering his voice. But it was too late. I’d already heard everything.

The truth wasn’t a knife—it was a slow, cold burn.

He came back a minute later, casual like nothing had happened. Tossed on his jacket.

“I got a sit-down with Santino’s crew,” he said, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “Could turn into a war if I don’t show. I’ll be back early though. Don’t worry—go watch your shows, rest up a bit. I’ll be home before dinner.”

Liar!

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

He leaned down, fixed the blanket around me like I was a child, kissed my forehead like I was his home. And then he left. And the door didn’t just close behind him. It buried me.

Then I turned and signed the damn paper.

Organ donor.

---

I went to the Hospital alone. Dr. Alex slid it back toward her and gave me this soft, cautious look. She was pale, well-dressed, probably a few years older than me, and completely out of place in the underworld we floated through.

“You sure about this?” she asked. “If your people disagree, they can override your choice.”

“I don’t got people,” I said. “No family. Just let them take what they can.”

At least if I end up six feet under, someone out there might get a second shot.

She hesitated. I caught a flicker of guilt in her eyes.

“It’s alright,” I added. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it. I’ve been hearing bad news since I was fifteen.”

“Actually, it’s… not as hopeless as it looks. Chemo and precision therapy could buy you time. And the baby's still early. We could—”

“I know,” I cut in, my voice calm. “If it was early-stage, maybe I’d fight it. But it's not. And I'm not gonna pretend just to make you feel better.”

She swallowed. Doctors like her weren’t used to girls like me—girls who’d held blades and secrets, who’d cleaned blood off tile floors without blinking.

“How big is a baby at seven weeks?” I asked, just to change the subject. Tried to smile, like I wasn’t choking inside.

“There’s already a heartbeat,” she said quietly, and for the first time, her expression softened into something real.

“No kidding?” My throat tightened. “So it's in there, alive.”

She nodded. “Little thing’s got its own rhythm already.”

That was the first time I felt something crack in me. It hit different—knowing something inside me was alive, even if the rest of me was dying.

She handed me a note. “That’s my number—WhatsApp too. Call me, no matter what time.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

The bus home was packed. Elbows in my ribs, smells of cheap cologne, gun oil, and street snacks. I found a seat in the back, head down, hoodie up. I choose the bus instead of driving my own car.

I texted Alex:

“Doc, how do you even know if nausea’s from cancer or pregnancy? I haven’t been able to eat in days.”

Before she could answer, someone tapped me.

“Hey,” an older guy barked. “This seat’s for elderly or pregnant people. Get up.”

“She looks fine to me,” a woman chimed in. “She can stand. Let the man sit.”

The whole bus started to turn.

I pulled my medical file out of my bag and flashed it like a badge. “I’m pregnant. And I got stage four brain cancer. I’m not getting up. Happy?"

Silence dropped like a shot fired into the air. I leaned back and stared out the window.

And just like that, I didn’t feel scared anymore.

---

The door clicked behind me, and the house was thick with silence. Too thick.

But the hallway smelled like wine and perfume—something expensive and too sweet. The kind of scent that didn’t belong to me.

The lights were off, except one in the entryway. A wine glass lay tipped on the console table. Burgundy puddled beneath it like blood.

I didn’t clean it up. My body ached—every part of me from the hospital still throbbed like I’d been flayed open. But I walked. Step by step. Numb. Quiet.

The master bedroom door was cracked.

I pushed it with my fingertips.

And there she was.

Zoraya.