Cynthia's POV

I left the hospital in a daze, the doctor's words still echoing in my skull louder than any headache.

I had six cruel months to live and everything and everyone was just acting so normal like I had not just been handed a death sentence.

What was I supposed to do with six months?

My phone buzzed in my purse. I pulled it out with shaking hands.

‘Where are you? You've been gone for hours. Don't forget the organic vegetables Mr. Brown prefers.’

It was my mother-in-law with another demand on an endless list.

No "how was your appointment." No "are you okay."

I stood on the corner, staring at the message, when something across the street caught my eye. A café with floor-to-ceiling windows. The kind of trendy place with overpriced lattes and desserts that I'd never been allowed to visit.

"Waste of time," Ethan would say whenever I suggested it. "We have coffee at home."

But apparently not a waste of time for him and Anna.

Amber sat between them, laughing at something Anna said. She had her arm around his shoulders, pulling him close for a photo. Ethan held up his phone, angling it to get the best shot.

"Perfect!" I couldn't hear him, but I could read his lips. "One more. Amber, look at Aunt Anna."

My son gazed up at Anna with pure adoration.

She ruffled his hair, planted a kiss on his forehead, and Ethan captured it all, his expression warm and indulgent.

They looked like a family.

A perfect, happy family.

I remembered last month when I'd asked Amber if we could take a photo together for his school project.

He rolled his eyes and muttered, "Do I have to? Mom, you're not like Lilian’s mom."

Lilian’s mom — the glamorous news anchor who looked like she belonged on a red carpet instead of the PTA. She was everything I wasn’t: elegant, accomplished, adored by all the parents.

The café table was covered with treats — cupcakes, cookies, colorful macarons. Anna fed Amber a bite of something chocolate, and he giggled.

When was the last time my son laughed with me?

When was the last time Ethan had looked at me the way he was looking at them — like they were precious, worth his time, worth his smile?

My hands moved on their own, pulling up Ethan's contact, pressing call.

Through the café window, I watched him glance at his phone. I watched his expression shift from content to irritated and he swiped to decline the call.

The rejection was a physical blow.

I called again.

This time he answered, but he didn't look happy about it. He said something to Anna and Amber, then stood and walked toward the back of the café, phone pressed to his ear.

"What?" His voice was sharp, impatient. "I'm busy, Cynthia."

"I..." My voice cracked. "I need to talk to you. It's important."

"Everything is always important with you." I heard the eye roll in his tone. "Can this wait? I'm in the middle of something."

"No, it can't wait. Ethan, please, I went to the hospital today and…"

"The hospital, right. How did that go? Did they tell you that you're fine and just need to relax like I said?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Look, we'll talk about this later. Did you clean Anna's apartment like I asked?"

The question hit me like a slap.

"What?"

"Anna's apartment. I asked you to clean it this morning. Did you go?"

I looked through the window at Anna, laughing at something Amber said, looking so beautiful and carefree in her designer dress. Why do I always have to do things for her like some maid, while she eventually takes all of the glory?

"I... no. I was at the hospital, Ethan. I've been trying to tell you…"

"Cynthia, I don't have time for this right now." His voice hardened. "You need to go there this afternoon. And don't forget to make dinner for her afterward. She's been working so hard on the Bennett project, the least you can do is help out. She's family."

"Ethan…"

"I have to go. We'll talk when I get home."

The line went dead.

I stood there, phone pressed to my ear, staring at my husband as he walked back to the table. Anna said something, and he laughed, shaking his head. Probably telling her I was being dramatic again.

Amber pulled on Ethan's sleeve, showing him something on a tablet. Ethan sat back down, pulling his son onto his lap in a gesture so natural, so affectionate, it made my chest ache.

I should walk in there, push open that café door and confront them. I am dying and they are having a swell time?

I wish I had that boldness, I would just turn out to be a crazy, dramatic woman ruining their perfect afternoon.

***

"Where have you been!"

My mother-in-law's voice hit me before I'd even closed the front door.

"Do you have any idea what time it is? The dinner is tonight! Tonight, Cynthia! And you've been gone for…" she glanced at her diamond watch, "…over five hours without a single word!"

"I'm sorry, Mother. I had a doctor's appointment…"

"I don't care if you had an appointment with the Pope himself!" Her voice rose to a shrill pitch. "Don’t you remember Mr. Brown is coming tonight? He is one of the most important potential partners for Walker Industries! And you disappear all day like a selfish child?"

The headache that had briefly receded came roaring back. I pressed my fingers to my temple.

"Mother, I really wasn't feeling well. The doctor said…"

"Oh, enough with the excuses!" She waved her hand dismissively. "You're always 'not feeling well.' Always complaining about something. Do you think I don't see through your little act?"

"It's not an act. I'm actually sick…"

"Sick of what? Sick of having a beautiful home? Sick of having a husband who provides for you? Sick of having more than a orphan girl like you ever deserved?" Her eyes were cold, cruel. "You should be grateful, Cynthia. Grateful that my husband forced Ethan to marry you, because God knows no one else would have wanted you."

She was very good at talking down on me, she had a degree in that.

"Now stop wasting time and get to the kitchen."

"Mother, please. Can't we hire a caterer? Or …"

Her laugh was harsh. "Are you insane? Do you know how much Ethan has sacrificed to get this meeting? And you want to serve him catered food like we're some common family?"

She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

"No. You will cook. You will make it perfect. Because if you ruin this, if your mediocre food or your pathetic appearance tonight costs my son this deal, then you deserve to die. Do you understand me? You deserve to die."

The words should have shocked me but I'd heard variations of this speech so many times they'd lost their power.

"I understand," I whispered.

***

Beef Wellington was Mr. Brown's favorite, according to the notes my mother-in-law had left. I prepared the dough from scratch, my hands shaking as I rolled it out.

My head pounded every single second and twice, I had to stop and lean against the counter, breathing through waves of nausea.

But I couldn't afford to rest because if dinner wasn't perfect, it would be my fault.

By the time the doorbell rang at seven o'clock, the dining table was set beautifully and arranged with care while I looked like death.

I'd caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My skin was pale, dark circles under my eyes, hair limp despite my best efforts. The simple black dress I'd chosen hung off my frame; I'd lost weight without noticing.

The guests arrived in a wave of expensive cologne and practiced laughter. Mr. Brown was exactly what I expected in his early sixties. His wife was younger, decorative, wearing a practiced smile.

Ethan welcomed them as he guided him into the living room.

When he saw me, his smile froze. His eyes traveled from my face to my dress to my hair, and I saw disappointment and disgust in his looks.

"Cynthia." His voice was pleasant, but I heard the steel underneath. "Could you help me grab the wine from upstairs? I think I left the vintage Mr. Brown prefers in our room."

He followed me up the stairs and as soon as we were out of earshot, he turned on me.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

I flinched. "What?"

"Look at yourself!" He gestured at me, his voice a harsh whisper. "You look terrible. Don't you understand what tonight means?"

"Ethan, I've been cooking all afternoon. I'm tired…"

"Tired? Everyone gets tired, Cynthia. But they don't show up to important dinners looking like… like this!" His hand cut through the air. "You're my wife. You represent me and right now, you're embarrassing me in front of one of the most important potential partners Walker Industries has ever had."

The unfairness of it stole my breath.

"I've been trying to tell you all day that I'm sick…"

"Not now." His voice was flat, final. "Whatever personal drama you're manufacturing can wait. Right now, I need you to go fix yourself. Change your dress. Put on makeup. Do something with your hair. Make yourself presentable."

"Ethan…"

"Now, Cynthia." He was already turning away. "And smile when you come back down. I don't care if you have to fake it. Just don't ruin this for me."

He walked away, his footsteps heavy on the stairs.

I stood in the hallway, alone, and felt something inside me crack.

#3

**Cynthia's POV**

The dinner was a performance, and I was like the supporting actress in the play who hadn’t practiced my lines.

Mr. Brown and his wife sat across from Ethan and me, their questions flowing like wine …personal, probing, the kind of questions people ask when they're deciding if you're the "right kind" of family to do business with.

How did we balance work and family? How did we keep the marriage strong? What was our philosophy on raising children?

All those questions hurt because well, none of them seem to have a positive response but I answered carefully, trying to paint a picture of domestic harmony I didn't actually feel.

Ethan offered occasional comments, mostly letting me carry the conversation. It was what I always did.

Then Anna walked in.

She appeared in the dining room doorway like she'd been summoned by some cosmic force, wearing a dress that made mine look like something from a decade ago. Emerald silk that clung to every curve. Hair artfully styled.

Makeup perfect in that effortless way that probably took an hour to achieve.

My eyes flicked to her stomach, catching the faint curve of a baby bump, so subtle no one would notice unless they knew — as I did, from the hospital hallway, from her breathless

“I’m pregnant!” to Ethan. The sight of it now, here, in my home, was a punch to the gut, my headache flaring like a warning siren.

This bitch has the nerve to come in here uninvited after getting pregnant for my husband. Hasn’t she done enough?

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry I'm late!" Her voice was bright, apologetic, drawing every eye in the room. "Traffic was absolutely insane. You guys started without me? Ethan didn't mention I was coming?"

I felt Ethan shift beside me, his discomfort is basically because it was awkward that he hadn't mentioned it. Which meant either he'd forgotten to mention her, or Anna had invited herself.

“Anna,” he said, his voice tight but polite, “good to see you. Join us.”

"Better late than ever" Mr. Brown said, gesturing to the empty chair. “And you are?”

“Anna… Anna Walker” she smiled seductively as she settled gracefully into the seat beside Ethan, and I watched the dynamic shift in real time.

"So you're family with the Walkers?" Mr. Brown's wife turned to Anna with interest.

"Sister," Anna corrected gently. "Adopted sister, technically, but family all the same. Our parents took us in after… well, you might’ve heard about it. The kidnapping case, twenty years ago? One of the nation’s biggest."

The way she said “us” made it sound like we were equals, like we shared the same scars, the same story. But I’d always been the afterthought, the girl tacked onto her narrative. My fingers tightened around my fork, the metal biting into my palm as Mrs. Brown leaned forward, intrigued.

"How wonderful," Mrs. Brown said. "And you all get along so well?"

"Oh, absolutely." Anna smiled at me, and it was perfect.

Warm and sisterly. Everything a supporting character should offer the lead.

"Cynthia is such a devoted mother and wife. We all admire her so much."

The compliment stung more than an insult would have. Because it was a lie wrapped in the language of affection. It was Anna positioning herself as someone who admired me from above, looking down with benevolent generosity.

"Tell me, how do you manage all the household responsibilities?" Mrs. Brown asked me. "It must be quite a lot having a child, a husband with a demanding career, managing staff..."

I opened my mouth, grasping for an answer that wouldn’t betray how hollow I felt. “It’s… challenging, but I…”

"Cynthia is remarkable at organization," Anna said smoothly, leaning forward slightly. "She has this system for family meal planning that's actually quite impressive. I guess it is because she is a stay-at-home mom, so she has all the time to make amazing dishes” She took a bite of the Beef Wellington I’d spent hours preparing, her eyes meeting mine. “Yummy.”

The words were a slap, painting me as both competent and pathetic, a housewife with nothing better to do.

Anna dominated every question that followed. When Mrs. Brown asked about motherhood, Anna spun tales of “helping” Ethan with Amber, as if I weren’t his mother. When the conversation turned to managing a household, she mentioned systems she’d suggested, improvements she’d made, each word erasing me a little more. By the time dessert was served, I felt like a ghost at my own table, my presence reduced to a shadow beside her radiance.

As soon as Mr. Brown and his wife made to leave, I fled to the master bedroom, the only place in this house that still felt like mine. I splashed water on my face, trying to cool the heat of humiliation, the headache throbbing in time with my pulse. I gripped the sink, willing the nausea to pass, when the door creaked open behind me.

I walked back into the bedroom and found Anna reclining on my matrimonial bed like she belonged there, her dress fanned out against the white duvet. My stomach churned, the violation of her presence in this sacred space igniting a fury I didn’t know I had left.

“Anna, what are you doing?” My voice trembled with shock and anger.

She tilted her head, her smile lazy, unapologetic. “Since when is it a crime to come in here? Ethan doesn’t mind.” She stretched, her fingers brushing the pillows where I slept.

My hands clenched, the headache spiking as I fought to keep my voice steady. “What do you want, Anna?”

She stood up, surveying the room, ran a finger along my dresser, pausing to adjust a perfume bottle that didn’t need adjusting. “Relax. I’m not here to fight. I just came to remind you of your place in this house,”

I inhaled sharply, my throat tightening. “Why are you doing this? Haven’t you done enough?”

Anna smirked, her tone dripping with pity. “Oh, come on. You’re miserable here, everyone can see it. I’m just doing you a favor by telling you what everyone already knows. Ethan’s heart…” she stepped closer, her voice dropping…“was never yours to begin with.”

Her words pierced deeper than I wanted to admit. I opened my mouth to respond, but she suddenly stiffened, her gaze darting past me toward the staircase.

I heard footsteps approaching the bedroom, and in an instant, Anna’s expression changed, fear flashing across her face like a practiced performance. She stumbled backward, collapsing to the carpet with a soft cry.

“Anna!” I exclaimed, startled.

She pressed a trembling hand to her cheek, eyes wide and glassy. “I won’t do it again,” she whimpered, her voice breaking just loud enough to carry down the hallway. “I won’t talk to Mrs. Brown anymore, please don’t hit me…”

I froze, realization dawning a second too late.

Ethan appeared in the doorway, his face a storm of confusion and fury. “What the hell is going on here?”

Anna flinched, curling in on herself like a wounded bird. “It was my fault,” she whispered shakily. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Please don’t be angry at her…”

My mouth fell open. “Anna... what are you doing? This is not what happened!” I stepped forward, panic flooding my chest. “She came in here…she started this!”

Ethan’s expression hardened, disbelief etched deep into his features. “Cynthia, what is wrong with you?”

“She’s lying!” I said, my voice breaking. “I didn’t touch her. She…”

“Enough!” Ethan’s voice cracked like a whip. “Do you want to cause another scene? We still have guests downstairs. Do you ever stop embarrassing this family?”

The words stung sharper than a slap. I felt the tears rise, but I swallowed them down.

Anna looked up at him with perfect fragility. “It’s okay, Ethan,” she whispered. “It was just a misunderstanding. She didn’t mean it.”

She’d turned the whole situation on its head, painting me as the aggressor.

Ethan turned to me, eyes cold. “Apologize to her.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Apologize.”

My pride screamed no, but the humiliation of another confrontation in front of the guests waiting downstairs pinned me in place. “Ethan, I didn’t…”

“Now, Cynthia.”

I could feel Anna’s gaze on me, smug, triumphant, and waiting for the kill.

My voice came out hollow, barely audible. “I’m sorry,” I said.

Anna’s lips curved faintly, the act complete. “It’s alright,” she murmured, lowering her eyes. “I forgive you.”

Ethan exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Good. I don’t want to hear about this again.” He helped Anna to her feet, his arm instinctively steadying her as he led her out of the room.

I stood there, numb and wondering if this is how I am going to continue living my life.

This is Anna's old trick—once, twice, countless times. She frames me, and he believes her. Once again, I feel utterly alone, but never as intensely as I do now.

#4

**Cynthia's POV**

Everyone had left, I felt so drained but resting wouldn’t give me as much joy as seeing my son and kissing him goodnight. I just wanted to hold onto him, feel his warmth, feel alive again. Just something to forget the hurt I feel inside.

I approached Amber’s room quietly, not wanting to startle him if he was already asleep. But as I drew closer, I heard his voice..

"Aunt Anna, guess what happened today!"

I froze, my hand halfway to the doorknob, well... Anna is being very deliberate about taking everyone I love from me. Isn't it just too late to be on a phone call with Amber?

"Mom wouldn't let me have ice cream this morning. She said it was too early and I hadn't finished my breakfast. But you would've let me, right? You always let me do what I want."

My heart skipped a beat, as much as I wanted to walk away so as not to ruin the little joy I had left, I was also curious to know what he talked about with Anna.

"She's so annoying," Amber continued, his voice taking on that petulant tone I'd been hearing more and more lately. "She makes me go to bed early, she picks out my clothes, she won't let me play games on weekdays. And today…" He laughed, "…today she said she had a headache and wanted Dad to leave work and take her to the hospital. Can you believe it? She's so dramatic. Dad didn't even believe her either. It was kind of hilarious watching her try to get attention."

The world tilted beneath my feet. I pressed my hand against the wall to steady myself.

Hilarious. My dying was hilarious to him.

"Oh, it's almost ten o'clock." Amber's voice dropped to a whisper, taking on a conspiratorial edge. "Mom will come to lock my phone soon. She always does. She's like a prison guard."

Another pause. Then, softer, almost wistful:

"I wish she would just... go away. Or die or something. Then you could be my mom instead. You're so much better than her. You're pretty and fun, and you actually care about what I want."

My chest constricted so tightly I couldn't breathe.

"Good night, Aunt Anna. Love you too!"

The call ended. I heard the rustle of blankets as Amber settled into bed, probably hiding his phone under his pillow the way he always did.

I stood there in the darkened hallway, trembling. The child I had carried for nine months, through morning sickness so severe I'd been hospitalized twice. The baby I had labored eighteen hours to bring into this world. The boy I had nursed through colic and ear infections and nightmares. The son I had sacrificed my dreams for, my education, my entire identity.

He wished I was dead and he was laughing about it with the woman who was sleeping with my husband.

I don't know how long I stood there. But it was long enough for my legs to go numb. Finally, I turned away from his door and walked mechanically toward the master bedroom.

Ethan was already in bed, still wearing his dress shirt with the top buttons undone, one arm draped over his eyes.

"Ethan." My voice came out raw, barely above a whisper.

He didn't move. "What now, Cynthia?"

The casual dismissal in those three words nearly broke me.

"I need to talk to you." I closed the door behind me, leaning against it for support. "Please."

He sighed. "It's late. I have an early meeting tomorrow with the Bennett account. Can this wait?"

"No." The word came out stronger than I expected. "No, it can't wait."

He finally moved his arm, glancing at me with irritation creasing his forehead. "Fine. What is it?"

"I'm sick." I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm room. "I went to the hospital today. They ran tests. Ethan, I have a brain tumor."

For a moment, surprise flickered in his eyes, then it was gone, replaced by skepticism.

"Cynthia." He sat up, running his hand through his hair. "Can you please stop making trouble? Do you have any idea what a brain tumor patient actually looks like? They're... they're sick. Really sick. You're standing here perfectly fine, giving me this melodramatic speech…"

"I'm not fine!" My voice cracked. "I've been telling you for weeks that something's wrong! The headaches, the nausea, the dizziness…you all just kept telling me to take an aspirin and stop complaining!"

"You're always complaining about something." He swung his legs off the bed, standing to face me. "Last month, it was back pain. Before that, you were convinced you had some kind of vitamin deficiency. Now it's a brain tumor? What's next, Cynthia?"

The words hit me like slaps.

Tears burned behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.

"Where were you today?" I asked quietly. "When I called you. Where were you really?"

His jaw tightened. "I told you. I was busy."

"You weren't busy." My voice hardened. "You were having tea in a café with Anna and Amber."

The silence that followed was deafening. He tried to avoid my eyes, and I wanted to push further to make him at least feel a little remorse.

"I saw you, Ethan. I saw both of you. Outside the obstetrics ward." My voice rose despite my best efforts to control it. "I heard Anna tell you she's pregnant. So I'm asking you directly, as your wife…is that child yours?"

This time, he stared at me with a very unreadable expression, then he looked away like I was talking trash.

He didn't deny it or feel any remorse; he didn’t do any fucking thing except stand there, silent and damning.

Before I could utter another word, his phone buzzed on the nightstand, cutting through the tension like a knife. We both looked at it.

Anna flashed across the screen.

Of course it was.

Ethan hesitated for just a second, then grabbed the phone and answered.

"Anna?" His voice immediately softened, all the irritation and coldness evaporating. "What's wrong?"

I watched him transform before my eyes. "Don't worry, I'll be right there." He was already moving, grabbing his jacket from the chair. "No, it's fine. I'm leaving now."

He ended the call and finally looked at me.

"We'll talk when I get back."

"Ethan, please…"

"Listen." He stopped at the door, one hand on the frame. His voice was flat, emotionless. "If it weren't for Anna's parents, we'd both be dead."

I already knew this — he’d thrown it in my face a hundred times over the years. When Ethan and I were kidnapped years ago, Anna’s parents died saving us. I lost my memory, and the police couldn’t return me to my real family. That was when Ethan’s father stepped in and adopted both Anna and me.

"Perhaps if you hadn’t tricked my father into loving you so much for him to think you were some kind of saint, some perfect daughter-in-law material, so he'd force me to marry you... we wouldn’t be here doing this"

"That's not true."

"Well, congratulations, Cynthia. You got exactly what you wanted. A husband, a home, a life you never could have had otherwise. You should be grateful. You should be content with that."

Each word was a nail driven into my heart.

"We'll talk when I get back," he continued, then walked out.

The bedroom door closed with a soft click.

I stood there, listening to his footsteps descend the stairs. The front door opened and shut. His car engine started, then faded into the distance.

Silence swallowed me whole.

My son wished I was dead.

My husband was rushing to another woman who was carrying his child.

My mother-in-law had made it clear a thousand times that I was a burden, a mistake, a curse my father-in-law had inflicted on them and I was dying.

Six months left, and I was spending them in this house that had never been a home. With people who would probably celebrate when I was gone.

My eyes drifted to the wall opposite the bed. There, in a simple frame, hung a poster I'd bought years ago at a street market. The Eiffel Tower at sunset, golden light washing over the Seine, the city of dreams spread out below.

Paris.

I had wanted so desperately to go to Paris when I was young. The École de Cuisine, one of the most prestigious culinary schools in the world. I'd been accepted on a full scholarship, but Ethan had refused to let me go.

"It's too far," he'd said. "What if something happens? No. Choose a local school."

In obedience, I had swallowed my dreams and enrolled in a mediocre culinary program thirty minutes from his parents' house, where I learned basic techniques I already knew and graduated with a certificate I never used.

If I only had six months left, I wouldn't spend them here. I wouldn't die in this house, in this life that had slowly suffocated me. I would go to Paris. I would see the city I'd dreamed of. I would walk along the Seine at sunset. I would eat croissants in sidewalk cafés and visit the Louvre, and maybe I would even enroll in a cooking class.

I stood there for a moment, looking around the bedroom. Eight years of my life had been spent in this room, and I couldn't think of a single happy memory.

Then I walked down the hall to Amber's room.

The door was still closed. I opened it carefully, letting the light from the hallway spill across his sleeping form.

He looked so small beneath his blankets. So innocent. Clutching the stuffed bear I'd sewn for him when he was three, back when he still hugged me goodnight and told me he loved me.

When had that stopped? When had I become the enemy?

"Goodbye, Amber," I whispered.

He didn't stir.

I closed the door softly and walked back downstairs. My suitcase felt lighter than it should, considering it held the remaining pieces of my life.

#5