"But I can't go on like this." Max sobbed on the other end of the line. "Let me say goodbye properly."

"No, Max! Don't do anything stupid! Wait for me, I'm coming right now!"

Panic seized Jade. She grabbed her coat and rushed out the door without a backward glance.

I opened my mouth to call out to her.

A sudden, searing pain ripped through my stomach.

I doubled over, clutching my abdomen.

*Retch.*

A massive mouthful of blood splattered onto the floor.

The smell of disinfectant stung my nose. Antiseptic white ceiling. Rhythmic beep of monitors.

Simon Chavez, my assistant, stood by the bed. His eyes were rimmed with red, and he looked like he was holding back tears.

I tried to smile. Probably looked more like a grimace. "Say it."

Simon exploded. "Andrew, it's not right! We all see it. You've bled for the Henson Group for years!"

He paced the small room. "Ms. Henson... she's been brainwashed by that kid! That's why she treats you like dirt. Don't listen to the people laughing online. The real staff, the ones who matter? We don't care about your past. We only know the Andrew who works himself to death for us."

A shaking finger pointed at the door. "If it weren't for you, the company would have gone under weeks ago."

Simon's words were a flicker of warmth in a frozen world. I waved my hand weakly, dismissing him.

I needed to be alone.

Silence descended. Only the rhythmic drip of the IV broke it.

Against my better judgment, I opened my phone. Checked her social media.

Jade had posted thirty minutes ago.

The photo was taken in a karaoke room, bathed in garish neon light. Max sat in front of a delicate birthday cake, hands clasped in prayer, eyes closed as he made a wish.

Jade was right next to him. Leaning intimately on his shoulder. Smiling brighter than she had smiled at me in years.

The caption read: *"My trusted pup said the life I saved is a new life. So, today is his new birthday. Happy Birthday, Max."*

Max had commented below: *"I wish that we both get everything our hearts desire."*

I zoomed in on the photo.

On their necks—both of them—several dark, damning hickeys.

I stared at the red marks until my vision blurred. An invisible hand crushed my heart, squeezing the life out of me. Breathing became a physical battle.

Three years of marriage. A stomach hemorrhage. A hospital bed.

She was out partying with her intern, celebrating his "rebirth."

*What am I to her?*

Numbly, I dialed Jade's number.

It rang for a long time. When she finally picked up, bass thumped and laughter echoed in the background.

"What is it?" Sharp. Impatient.

I licked my cracked lips. "I left my laptop at home. There's an urgent document on it. Can you bring it to the hospital?"

A scoff. Loud and cruel.

"Andrew Mason, are you done yet?"

"Using this kind of pathetic excuse to trick me into coming over? Trying to separate me and Max?" Another laugh. "Does it make you feel better?"

I closed my eyes. A tear leaked out. "What if I'm really sick, Jade?"

"Sick? What sickness could you possibly have?" Her voice rose, dripping with mockery. "Don't tell me you're going to say cancer?"

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.

Her perfume hung thick in the air—expensive, cloying—clashing violently with the antiseptic still clinging to my clothes.

"You finally decided to come back?"

Glacial. Dripping with accusation.

"I thought you'd actually grown a spine and learned to run away from home."

I kicked off my shoes. Dropped the bag with my medical records onto the entryway cabinet. The incision in my stomach throbbed, a dull, persistent ache that had become as familiar as breathing.

"I was sick." I met her gaze. "I've been in the hospital for a week."

Her hand paused over the glossy page.

Finally, she looked up.

Those eyes—the ones I used to drown in—held nothing but mockery and disbelief.

"Sick? Hospitalized?"

A scoff. Like she'd heard the world's worst joke.

"Andrew Mason, there has to be a limit to your tantrums over a single photo, right? Using a fake illness to garner sympathy—don't you think that's pathetic?"

So that's what this was to her. My agony. A clumsy farce performed for her attention.

My heart had been numb for so long her cruelty didn't even sting.

When I didn't rise to the bait, the ridicule on her face faded. Replaced by bored magnanimity. She beckoned me over, her tone softening into something patronizing.

"Alright, look. I know you're upset, but Max is different—he's sensitive. He's a newcomer to the workplace. He messed up a major project, and then you went and spread that photo. How do you expect him to show his face in the company now?"

A sigh. The benevolent peacekeeper.

"Let's consider the matter settled. Sign this document, and I'll pretend none of this happened."

She lifted a folder from the coffee table. Held it out.

I took it.

The bold black title stabbed at my eyes.

**Company Equity Transfer Agreement.**

My name, printed clearly under "Transferor."

Under "Transferee," three words in stark relief: **Max Pruitt.**

Jade's voice droned on, laced with sickening charity.

"At the end of the day, you wronged Max. Treat this equity as compensation. Andrew, this is what you owe him."

*I owe him?*

I looked at the woman before me—a face I once knew better than my own—and saw a stranger.

I didn't argue. There was no point.

Silently, I opened my bag. From beneath a stack of hospital receipts, I pulled out a different document. Simon Chavez had printed it the night before my discharge.

I placed it on the coffee table.

Slid it directly over her ridiculous equity transfer agreement.

Jade frowned. "What is this?"

My voice was steady. Distinct.

"A divorce agreement. You sign yours. Then I'll sign yours."