Chapter 1

The doctor' s words from yesterday still echoed in my head, vague but heavy, "We need more tests, Elara, but prepare yourself."

Prepare myself for what, I wanted to scream, but the fatigue was a lead blanket, smothering even my panic.

Today was our anniversary, ten years with Marcus Thorne.

A decade.

It felt like a century of slowly chipping away at who I used to be, the girl who dreamed of making documentaries, not the ghost I saw in the mirror now.

My head throbbed, a familiar rhythm these past few months, and I pressed my fingers to my temples.

Marcus was supposed to be home an hour ago.

I' d cooked his favorite, roast chicken, the smell now just a cloying reminder of my effort.

My phone lit up, not with a call from him, but a notification from Instagram.

Skyler Reed.

His latest.

A picture of her, beaming, a champagne flute in her hand, Marcus' s arm slung possessively around her shoulder.

The caption read: "Celebrating new beginnings with Mr. T! He knows how to treat a girl."

Mr. T.

My stomach churned.

Public, blatant, not even a shred of secrecy anymore.

I scrolled through the comments, a sea of fawning admiration for her, for them.

No one knew the Elara who was withering away behind the facade of Marcus Thorne' s perfect life.

I dialed his number, my hand shaking slightly.

It rang, once, twice, then his voice, impatient, sharp.

"What is it, Ellie? I'm busy."

"Busy?" I managed, my voice barely a whisper. "Marcus, it' s our anniversary."

A sigh on his end, loud and dismissive.

"Oh, that. Look, something came up. Skyler' s landed a huge role, we' re celebrating."

His tone was casual, as if discussing the weather.

"She' s young, Ellie, vibrant. Things change."

"Things change?" I repeated, the words hollow. "I' m your wife."

"And you sound tired, Ellie. You always sound tired lately. Honestly, you' ve let yourself go. Skyler' s a breath of fresh air."

The cruelty was so casual, so practiced.

A sharp pain shot through my head, more intense this time.

I felt something warm trickle from my nose.

I touched it, looked at my fingers.

Blood.

Dark red against my pale skin.

"Marcus," I started, but the line went dead. He' d hung up.

The nosebleed quickened, dripping onto the white tablecloth I' d set for a dinner that would never happen.

I stumbled to the bathroom, the room spinning.

More blood.

The doctor' s words came back, "Prepare yourself."

I looked at my reflection, a gaunt woman with haunted eyes and blood on her face.

Happy anniversary to me.

The marriage wasn't just unraveling, it was dead, and I was the only one left at its funeral.

And something else was dying too, inside me, piece by piece.