Love and hate intertwined

I had loved Silas for ten years.

But on the very day I was diagnosed with a terminal illness, his first love returned home.

I loved him. Whether he loved me in return, I didn't know-I couldn't feel it. But I was certain he would never cheat.

In the final days of my life, I flawlessly played the role of the perfect wife.

After I died, he found my diary. And when he finished reading it, he broke down and wept with a gut-wrenching, soul-crushing agony.

Chapter 1

The diagnosis was printed on a crisp, pristine sheet of white paper. Cancer. Stage four.

My fingers, trembling and numb, hovered over the phone screen. I opened my contacts, tapped his name, and then backed out. I repeated this three times.

Silas. My husband.

Before I could even press the dial button, his name flashed across the screen. He was calling me.

My heart gave an involuntary, violent lurch. I swiped to answer and pressed the phone to my ear.

"Nina," his voice drifted through the receiver, his tone softening as he said my name. "I have some things to take care of tonight. I won't make it for dinner, and I might be back late. Don't wait up for me; go to bed early."

The words I had been practicing-Silas, I'm sick, the doctor says I'm dying-caught in my throat.

"...Okay," I murmured.

The call was as brief and compliant as always. The line disconnected, leaving only the hollow tone of a dropped call, but I remained frozen on the sidewalk, the phone still pressed to my cheek.

Silas, I'm sick, I'm dying.

Silas and I had been married for four years, but I had loved him for nearly ten.

I was a lucky woman, or at least that's what everyone in our social circle said.

Silas Vance, the notoriously ruthless CEO of Vance Capital, had been under immense pressure from his family's board of directors to present a married, settled image to the shareholders.

I was introverted, came from a decent background, and fit the physical mold of a Manhattan socialite perfectly. We had a brief, pragmatic conversation over a glass of champagne. By the end of the month, we were at City Hall signing our marriage certificate.

Silas needed a wife who wouldn't bring the messy complications of a passionate romance into his life. I was his ideal candidate.

For the first two years, our marriage felt like living in a museum. But little by little, I chipped away at the ice.

I brewed his coffee exactly the way he liked it, learned to navigate his silent moods, and turned our penthouse into a warm, inviting home. Slowly, the ice began to melt.

We started to feel like a real married couple, finding a quiet, domestic rhythm amidst the chaos of the city.

He would kiss my forehead before heading off to Wall Street; we would share quiet, cozy dinners together. It was all gradually morphing into my ideal life-a beautiful, fragile dream.

But today, the dream shattered.

Today, Dr. Evans told me I had less than six months to live.

I also knew something else.

Today was the day Serena Thorne-Silas's first love-returned from Paris after finalizing her divorce.

That was why he had been in such a rush to hang up the phone.

My husband was rushing to JFK Airport to pick up the woman he had never stopped loving.

I didn't eat dinner. I sat in the middle of the massive velvet sofa in our living room, staring at the pitch-black TV screen, waiting.

I waited in silence as the city lights flickered on outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the skyline into a sea of artificial stars. I waited until I was utterly exhausted and finally slipped into sleep.

The sound of the heavy wooden door opening jolted me awake. It was 1:15 AM.

Silas stepped inside, moving carefully to avoid making noise. When he flipped on the dim foyer light, he suddenly froze, our eyes meeting across the expansive room. He was impeccably dressed, though looking slightly weary, his tie loosened.

He frowned slightly. "Why are you still up?"

"I fell asleep on the couch," I said, forcing a soft, practiced smile onto my lips. "I woke up when I heard the door."

Silas gave a vague "Mm," his face returning to its usual calm, unreadable expression.

I stood up, my joints aching, and walked over to help him off with his coat.

As I took the heavy wool overcoat from his shoulders, a scent hit me. It was his cologne mixed with a sweet floral note. Gardenia.

The scent clawed its way into my nasal cavity, cloying and pungent. It was Serena's signature perfume.

My stomach churned violently, a wave of nausea washing over me, and I had to grip the coat tightly just to steady myself.

On the very night I was handed a death sentence, my husband had thrown himself entirely into rekindling a connection with his newly single ex-girlfriend.