Chapter 1

The oncologist's words hung in the sterile air of the OHSU consultation room.

"Late-stage pancreatic cancer, Eleanor."

Each word was a hammer blow.

I stared at him, Dr. Ramirez, a kind man with tired eyes.

He was saying more things, prognosis, options, palliative care.

I heard none of it.

My life, the one I knew, had just ended.

The one I was living felt empty, a hollow shell.

Marcus.

My husband.

My mind flashed back, two decades ago.

Our tiny apartment in Southeast Portland, a cheap, cramped space.

We had nothing but dreams and each other.

I was an assistant director at a small art gallery, my own ambitions bright.

He was Marcus Thorne, then just a brilliant, driven coder with an idea for a tech startup.

NovaCore.

He built it from our kitchen table, fueled by cheap coffee and my unwavering support.

I gave up my career, my savings, everything, to help him.

He promised it would be worth it.

"Our future, Ellie," he'd said, his eyes shining.

Now, we lived in a sterile modern mansion in the West Hills.

His success was a monument.

Our emotional distance was a canyon.

He was obsessed with work, with legacy.

A child.

That was his new obsession.

Years of IVF, a constant reminder of my body's failure.

He used to say it didn't matter.

Now, it was all that mattered to him.

He'd grown cold, critical.

His infidelity was an open secret I refused to acknowledge aloud.

"Working late."

"Business trips."

Chloe Sanders.

I knew her name, her face from company events.

Late twenties, ambitious.

He'd set her up in a Pearl District condo.

I imagined them there, building the life he craved, the family I couldn't give him.

I drove home from the hospital, the diagnosis papers a lead weight on the passenger seat.

Our wedding anniversary had been three days ago.

A disaster.

He'd come home at 2 AM.

The scent of Tom Ford perfume, Chloe's signature, clung to him.

We fought. A vase, one he'd given me years ago, shattered.

I'd left the pieces on the floor, a testament to our broken marriage.

I walked into the living room now. The shards were still there.

I bent to pick them up, my hand trembling.

The front door opened. Marcus.

He looked surprised to see me home so early.

A faint smudge of expensive lipstick, not my shade, was on his collar.

"Ellie? What's wrong?" he asked, his tone impatient.

I held up the papers. "Marcus, we need to talk."

My voice was a whisper.

"I don't have time for another one of your moods, Ellie."

He glanced at his watch. "I have a dinner meeting."

"This is important," I said, my voice gaining a little strength.

He sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair.

"What is it now? Did I forget to load the dishwasher again?"

The casual cruelty of it stole my breath.

"It's about us, Marcus. About everything."

I gestured vaguely at the opulent room, the life he'd built.

The life that was suffocating me.

During the tense exchange, as I gestured, my hand brushed against a sharp edge of the broken vase.

A thin line of red welled up on my palm.

He saw it. He scoffed.

"Always the drama, Ellie. What is it now? A papercut?"

The dismissal was like a slap.

"Your affair, Marcus," I said, the words finally out. "With Chloe Sanders."

He didn't even flinch.

"Don't be ridiculous. Chloe is a valuable employee."

"Valuable enough to spend nights with? To buy condos for?"

He finally looked annoyed.

"Alright, fine. Yes. It's a stress reliever. A networking necessity in this tech world. You wouldn't understand."

His eyes were cold.

"I was going to phase her out, once this critical project is complete."

A lie. I knew it. He knew I knew it.

His phone buzzed on the marble countertop. Chloe's name flashed on the screen.

He picked it up.

"Chloe? What's wrong?"

His voice instantly softened, full of concern.

"You're not feeling well? You're scared to be alone?"

He listened, his back to me.

"Okay, okay, I'm on my way. Don't worry."

He hung up and grabbed his keys.

He started for the door, not even a glance in my direction.

Ellie, bleeding from the hand, holding her death sentence. Ignored.

"Marcus..." I whispered, heartbroken. "I want a divorce."

He stopped at the door, turned.

His face was a mask of contempt.

"First the theatrics with the vase, now divorce. What's next, Ellie? Are you going to tell me you're dying to get my attention?"

He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

I sank to the floor, the diagnosis papers scattering around me.

The cut on my hand throbbed.

I pulled out my phone, tried to call him.

Straight to voicemail. Blocked.

"Day one," I whispered to the empty room. "Day one of my farewell to Marcus."

A wave of pain, sharp and deep, ripped through my abdomen.

I curled into a ball, gasping.

The cancer. It was real.

And I was utterly alone.