Chapter 1

The world believes Liam Carter wrote the greatest love song of the decade for the woman on stage.

He didn't. He wrote it about me.

And Olivia, the woman singing it, has no idea.

The song is called "Final Breath," a ballad about a dying musician letting go of the love of his life. Critics call it a masterpiece of heartbreak. It's the reason Olivia Hayes, my Olivia, is now a superstar.

Three years ago, she was just a singer in a dimly lit bar, and I was the guy on the guitar next to her. We had ten years together. Then the doctors gave me my diagnosis, and a few weeks later, she was gone.

Now, she's here. In the spotlight. Engaged to him.

And my final breath is getting closer.

The cold of the stadium seat seeps through my thin jacket, a deep ache that settles in my bones. It' s a familiar feeling, a constant companion these days, but tonight it feels sharper.

Every breath is a chore. A shallow, painful pull that reminds me of the cancer spreading through my lungs. Dr. Chen told me not to come. She said the excitement, the crowd, it would be too much.

She was right.

But I had to see her. One last time.

My hand trembles in my pocket, fingers wrapped around a small, smooth stone. It' s from a beach on the coast, a place we went for our fifth anniversary. Olivia found it, saying it fit perfectly in the palm of her hand, a little piece of the ocean we could keep.

I' ve kept it for her.

My gaze is fixed on the stage, a universe of light and sound. And in the center of it is Olivia. She looks different. Polished. Her hair, once a wild mess of curls I loved to run my fingers through, is now styled in perfect, shimmering waves. Her clothes are expensive, glittering under the lights.

But her voice... her voice is the same. It' s the voice that used to sing me to sleep, the voice that promised we' d face anything together.

Now it sings a song about my death, a song written by another man.

The song ends. The crowd erupts, a roar of thousands of people who love her, who love this story. Olivia' s chest heaves, a genuine, beautiful smile on her face. She thanks the audience, her voice thick with emotion.

Then, Liam Carter walks onto the stage.

He' s exactly what you' d expect. Tall, handsome, confident. He moves with an easy grace, a man completely comfortable with being adored. He walks right to Olivia, takes her hand, and the crowd' s roar softens to a collective, adoring sigh.

He pulls a microphone from a stagehand.

"Olivia," he says, his voice booming through the stadium. "From the moment I found you, I knew my life had changed. You were lost, and I was just a man with a song. But together, we found our way."

My stomach twists. He found her. That' s the official story. A car accident, partial amnesia. A kind, brilliant producer who nursed her back to health and stardom.

"This song," he continues, gesturing to the whole world, "it came from a place of deep loss in my past. But you, Olivia, you gave it a new meaning. You turned my pain into hope."

He' s a good liar. I' ll give him that.

Then, he drops to one knee.

The crowd gasps. A wave of light washes over the stadium as thousands of phones are raised to capture the moment.

"Olivia Hayes," Liam says, his voice cracking with practiced emotion. "You are my life, my inspiration. Will you marry me?"

He holds up a ring. A diamond so large it catches the light from the back of the stadium, a tiny, burning star.

Olivia brings her hands to her mouth, tears streaming down her face. They' re happy tears. The kind I haven' t seen in three years.

She nods, unable to speak. Then she finds her voice, a breathless "Yes! Yes!"

The stadium explodes. Confetti cannons fire, showering them in gold and silver. They kiss, a perfect, movie-ending kiss, broadcast on the giant screens for everyone to see.

A story of love found, of healing, of a perfect happy ending.

Around me, people are crying, cheering, hugging each other. A girl next to me is sobbing into her boyfriend' s shoulder. "It's so beautiful," she wails. "They deserve this so much."

Everyone here is part of this moment. Everyone except me.

I am the ghost at the feast. The forgotten footnote in a story that used to be mine.

The pain in my chest is no longer a dull ache. It' s a hot, sharp blade. It' s not just the cancer. It' s the sight of her, so happy, in a life I have no part in. A life built on the ashes of ours.

I have to get out.

I stumble to my feet, pushing my way through the ecstatic crowd. Every smiling face is an accusation. Every cheer is a blow. I gasp for air, my lungs burning.

"Hey, buddy, you okay?" a man asks, grabbing my arm as I lurch sideways. "Too much to drink?"

I can' t answer. I just shake my head, pulling my arm away.

I finally break free from the crowd, stumbling into the cold, empty concourse. I lean against a concrete pillar, my body shaking. The sound of the celebration still echoes behind me.

They think it' s his story. They think it' s their love that' s so inspiring. They don't know that the dying musician in that song isn' t some abstract idea from Liam' s past.

It's me. I'm the dying musician. And my lost love just said yes to another man.

A violent cough wracks my body. It tears through my chest, hot and wet. I pull my hand away from my mouth.

It' s stained with blood.