Chapter 2

(Olivia's Journal)

The diagnosis came on a Tuesday. Leukemia. Terminal.

The doctor's words were gentle, but they landed like hammer blows. "Aggressive... limited time... palliative care..."

Despair. Cold and absolute. It wrapped around me, stealing my breath. I sat in Dr. Ramirez's office, Maya beside me, her hand gripping mine so tightly I thought the bones would break. Maya, my best friend, my rock. An oncology nurse. She'd suspected. She'd pushed for the tests.

Now, the confirmation.

Shock. Not entirely. I'd known, hadn't I? Deep down. The fatigue that clung to me like a shroud. The bruises that appeared from nowhere. The pain, a constant, dull ache that medication barely touched.

I'd hidden it. From Ethan, mostly. What would be the point in telling him? He wouldn't care. He'd see it as another inconvenience, another burden.

I remembered a time, years ago, I'd had a terrible flu. Feverish, weak, I'd called him at the office.

"Ethan, I'm really sick. Can you come home?"

His voice was impatient. "Olivia, I'm in the middle of a crucial deal. Take some aspirin. Call a doctor if you must. I can't be bothered with this."

He hadn't come home. Chloe had a charity auction that night. He'd escorted her. I saw the pictures online the next day. Him, smiling, dapper. Her, glittering on his arm.

I'd learned then. My suffering was mine alone.

There was a small, antique ring Ethan had given me early in our marriage. A sapphire, my birthstone. He'd bought it on a whim, from a street vendor during a trip to Italy, before his father had fully orchestrated our lives. It was probably worthless, but I treasured it. I wore it on a chain around my neck, hidden beneath my clothes. My secret talisman.

One night, he'd found it. We were arguing, another bitter, pointless fight. He'd grabbed me, his fingers closing around the chain. It snapped. The ring fell to the floor.

"What's this piece of junk?" he'd sneered, picking it up.

"You gave it to me," I'd whispered, tears stinging my eyes.

He'd looked at it, then at me, a cruel amusement dawning in his eyes. "Did I? Must have been drunk." He tossed it into the trash.

Later, after he'd stormed out, I'd retrieved it. Mended the chain. Worn it again.

He hated me. I knew why. I was the cage his father had built for him. I was the symbol of a life he hadn't chosen, a life that kept him from Chloe, the woman he truly loved. Or thought he loved. His hatred was a shield, protecting him from the truth of his own gilded prison.

That night, after the diagnosis, I couldn't sleep. My eyes were dry, as if I'd run out of tears long ago. I thought of all the times I'd tried to reach him, to bridge the chasm between us. The carefully prepared meals he never came home for. The tentative conversations he cut short. The anniversary gifts left unopened.

He was celebrating, I knew. The divorce was finally happening. He'd probably sent Chloe a lavish gift. Champagne, no doubt. He'd be telling his friends how he was finally free of the shrew, the cold fish, the albatross around his neck. That's what they called me in his circle. I'd heard the whispers.

My phone buzzed. Ethan.

I almost didn't answer. What could he possibly want?

"Olivia," his voice was sharp, suspicious. "You were serious about tomorrow? No tricks?"

A strange, almost playful impulse took over me. The old Olivia, the one who endured, was fading. A new one, with nothing left to lose, was emerging.

"Of course, Ethan. Nine AM. Civil Affairs Bureau. I wouldn't miss it for the world." My voice was light, almost cheerful.

He was silent for a moment. "You sound... different."

"Do I? Maybe I'm just happy."

Another pause. "Right. Well, don't be late." He hung up.

Happy. The irony was a bitter pill.

But an idea was forming. A final act. A legacy.

If he wanted his freedom so badly, he would earn it.

I picked up my phone again. I didn't call Ethan. I called my lawyer.

Then, I began to sketch. A tour. Five places. A journey into our shared past, our broken present.

He would see. He would finally see.

Or he wouldn't.

Either way, I would have my closure.

And perhaps, just perhaps, a small measure of justice.

I looked at the calendar. One month. That's what the doctors had implied I had. Maybe a little more, with aggressive treatment. Treatment I would now refuse.

One month.

I would make him a proposal. A final set of tasks.

"Ethan," I would say. "You want this divorce without a fight, without me taking a penny?"

He would say yes, of course. Eagerly.

"Then you will do five things for me. With me. No questions, no complaints. You complete them, and I sign. I disappear. You get Chloe. You get your life back."

He would agree. He was arrogant enough to think it would be easy.

He had no idea what he was about to agree to.

No idea at all.