Chapter 3

Marcus shielded Chloe, his body a protective barrier.

His glare was icy.

I looked at him, the man I had loved, the man who had built an empire on my sacrifices.

He was a stranger.

Cold, cruel, unrecognizable.

My voice trembled, not with weakness, but with a chilling clarity.

"Marcus," I asked, my gaze unwavering. "If I told you I was dying... would you still treat me like this?"

He scoffed, a harsh, ugly sound.

He pulled a sobbing Chloe closer.

"If dying is what it takes for you to stop this insane behavior, then frankly, Ellie, go right ahead."

He turned and walked out, Chloe clinging to him.

The door slammed shut, a final, definitive sound.

Alone again.

The words echoed. Go right ahead.

He meant it.

The next day, I arranged for a final portrait.

A local photography studio, recommended by Liv.

I wanted something stark, honest.

Black and white.

No pretense, no false smiles.

Just me, as I was. Gaunt, weary, but with a flicker of defiance in my eyes.

The photographer was gentle, respectful.

He captured the sorrow, the acceptance, the fading beauty.

I clutched the framed portrait as I left the studio, a heavy weight in my hands.

It was a raw, unflinching image of my own mortality.

As I stepped onto the sidewalk, I bumped into someone.

Marcus.

And Chloe.

They were browsing a nearby art gallery, laughing, their arms linked.

Marcus looked up, saw me. His eyes narrowed.

"Ellie? What are you doing here? Are you stalking us now?" he accused, his voice loud enough for passersby to hear.

Chloe, ever the actress, put on a look of feigned innocence.

"Ellie, you look so pale. Are you hiding something?" Her tone was sweet, laced with malice.

Marcus's eyes fixed on the portrait in my hands.

"What's that?" he demanded, irritated. He tried to grab it from me.

I pulled back, but he was stronger.

The portrait slipped from my grasp.

It hit the pavement with a sickening crunch.

The glass shattered, scattering like broken dreams.

The black-and-white image of my face, stark and sorrowful, lay exposed.

Chloe gasped theatrically. "Oh my, black and white? How... dramatic."

Marcus's face hardened. His jaw clenched.

"Is this your latest attempt to manipulate me, Ellie?" he sneered. "What's this, a 'death portrait'?"

Tears streamed down my face, hot and unstoppable.

"Maybe," I whispered, my voice choked. "I just wanted to see if you'd feel a shred of regret."

His voice was like ice.

"Then you'll be disappointed."

He shoved past me, pulling Chloe with him.

The pain in my abdomen intensified, a brutal, twisting agony.

My legs gave out.

I collapsed onto the sidewalk, the shattered portrait beside me.

Chloe paused, leaned down, her face close to mine.

Her whisper was a serpent's hiss.

"See, Ellie? He doesn't care. He's mine."

She straightened up, a triumphant smirk on her lips.

Marcus called back to her, impatient. "Leave her be, Chloe. She's just putting on a show. Let her wallow in it."

They walked away, leaving me there.

A memory surfaced, sharp and painful.

Years ago, when we were poor, so poor.

I'd had a severe kidney infection, hospitalized, delirious with fever.

Marcus had knelt by my hospital bed, his face etched with fear.

He held my hand, his grip desperate.

"Fight, Ellie," he'd begged, tears in his eyes. "Please, fight. Live for me."

The contrast, his past desperation for my life, his current indifference to my suffering, was a fresh stab to my heart.

Go right ahead, he'd said.

And so, I would.