A week had passed since my confrontation with Serena at the cafe.

As our fourth wedding anniversary approached, Silas became increasingly clingy, almost to the point of suffocation. He came home early every day. After dinner, he even insisted on putting on his coat to walk Nova in Central Park with me.

Tonight, I was sitting in bed, reading a novel while my diary remained locked in the bottom drawer. Silas climbed into bed and immediately closed the distance between us, pulling me tightly into his arms.

I rested my head against his chest, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart. He rested his chin on the top of my head, looking down at the pages of my book.

It was a trashy domestic drama. The cheating husband was defending his mistress, and the wife had just slapped the other woman, screaming, "I'm his wife!"

I felt Silas's arm tighten around my waist. His whole body went rigid.

I turned the page without reacting. I kept reading as the husband in the book realized his mistake, begged for forgiveness, and ultimately won his wife back for a happy ending.

By the time I finished the chapter, it was past midnight.

The pain in my abdomen was a dull, persistent throbbing; I needed my painkillers. I tried to pull out of his arms to go to the bathroom, but he held me like a vice.

"Silas?" I whispered into the dark.

"Mm," he grunted, his voice thick with sleep.

The bedroom was silent.

"Nina," he murmured, burying his face in the crook of my neck. His voice sounded incredibly fragile, almost like a frightened child. "You never used to call me by my full name. You always called me 'Si.'"

A bitter, cynical laugh rose in my throat.

When we first got married, he never called me Nina either. In front of others, he called me "Ms. Thorne," and when we were alone, he barely spoke to me at all.

We had both changed.

I rolled over to face him, resting my hand on his waist. I smiled into his shadowy silhouette. "Okay, Si."

He stared at me, his eyes tracking every subtle shift in my expression, searching for a crack in my facade. Finding none, he pulled me flush against him.

"Nina..." he said softly.

If I didn't know the truth, I really would have believed this man was madly in love with me.

But if he loved me... why did he rush to Serena's side the second she called?

I was on the hundredth entry in my diary.

Today was August 25th, our fourth wedding anniversary.

A few weeks ago, I casually mentioned a recipe from an Italian restaurant in Florence, saying I missed it. Silas had actually remembered. He came home at 3 PM, took off his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and spent hours in our kitchen.

When I came back from taking Nova to the park, the penthouse had been transformed. The lights were dimmed, soft jazz floated from the speakers, and the dining table was covered in red roses and flickering candles. The air smelled of perfectly seared steak and truffles.

Silas stood by the bar, pouring two glasses of expensive vintage champagne. When I walked in, he looked up, his eyes incredibly tender.

"Welcome home, Nina."

It was a cliché romantic setup, but it was flawless.

Underneath my champagne flute were two first-class plane tickets.

Departure date: the day after tomorrow. Destination: Maui, Hawaii.

I looked at Silas, then down at the tickets, and offered a soft smile.

The antique clock on the wall chimed 8 PM. The atmosphere was perfect.

And then, his phone, resting on the marble counter, buzzed.

The caller ID was Serena.

Silas hesitated, but he picked it up anyway. In the quiet room, I could hear her frantic, choked voice.

"Si... I feel so sick," she sobbed, using the very nickname I had just given back to him. "I'm in so much pain, and I don't know anyone else in the city anymore. Please... can you come help me? Si, please."

The romantic music seemed to screech to a halt.

Silas looked up at me.

In that split second, I saw his decision. I knew exactly how tonight would end.

"Nina... I'm sorry," he said, his voice torn. "I'll take her to the ER and come right back. It'll be quick."

I stood perfectly still by the table. I looked at the roses, the champagne, the tickets.

"Could you... not go?" I asked softly.

Silas looked at me, his jaw tight. He didn't say a word.

The air in the room froze. His apologetic expression vanished, replaced by the cold, unapproachable CEO I had married four years ago.

He looked away. "I'll be right back. I promise I won't miss our anniversary dinner."

We were locked in a standoff. Eventually, I surrendered.

"Okay," I murmured.

He grabbed his coat and headed for the door. I stood in the middle of the living room, watching his retreating back.

Just as his hand touched the doorknob, he turned to look at me.

I offered a gentle, submissive smile. What a perfect, understanding wife.

"Drive safely," I said.

"I will," he replied, and walked out into the night.

The heavy door clicked shut. The jazz music continued to play, as if mocking my empty apartment.

I picked up the crystal champagne flute and hurled it against the wall. It shattered into a thousand glittering pieces, leaving a wet, jagged stain on the expensive wallpaper.

I turned and walked toward the bedroom. Silas wasn't coming back tonight. I knew that.

Serena had won the bet.

But I hadn't lost.

I locked the bedroom door, walked over to the nightstand, opened the drawer, and pulled out the thick leather journal. I flipped to the next blank page.

Picking up the pen felt like trying to lift a boulder. The chaos in my mind had finally settled into a cold, terrifying clarity, but my body was failing.

My abdomen, my head, my heart—everything felt as though it was being slowly, methodically sliced open by a rusty blade.

I was freezing. It was a biting, unnatural cold that no amount of blankets could fix.

My hands shook violently, but I forced the pen to the paper, meticulously and painfully writing out every letter.

August 25th.

Today is our fourth wedding anniversary.

Silas cooked for me. He bought flowers and decorated the penthouse.

He bought tickets to take me to the islands.

But before we could even sit down, Serena called.

Silas went to Serena and left me behind.

I guess I won't ever get to see those islands after all.

Goodbye, Silas.

A teardrop slid down my cheek and splashed onto the paper, bleeding the black ink into a smear of grey.

I wasn't crying over a broken heart; I was crying because the physical pain was unbearable.

I had survived my whole life on scraps of affection.

Because no one had ever truly loved me, I poured my entire soul into Silas, living purely on the hope that he would love me back.

I had loved him so deeply. But that pure, fiery devotion had long since burned to ash. Now, only a hollow, rotting shell remained.

I was like a candle that had burned off its final wisp of flame, leaving nothing but the metal base.

The moment Silas Vance walked out that door, my last shred of love for him vanished with him.

I dragged the pen across the page to finish the final stroke, leaned back in the chair, and laughed. I laughed until my chest heaved, the harsh sound cutting through the quiet room.

My role in this pathetic farce was officially over.

Why did I hide my cancer? Why did I play dumb and turn a blind eye to their emotional affair? Why did I make that bet with Serena?

Because what I handed Serena wasn't the keys to the kingdom; it was a live grenade.

The living can never compete with the dead.

Whether Silas loved me or not didn't matter anymore. He would never forget me.

He owed me. He owed me for his life, his stability, his guilt.

I was going to let him drown in remorse.

I wanted him to read this diary.

I wanted him to sit alone in this empty apartment and think long and hard about exactly how he had pushed his dying wife into the abyss while rushing to his ex-girlfriend's side.

This absurd tragedy would culminate in my death. And the cruel, agonizing fallout would be borne entirely by Silas and Serena.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the bottle of sleeping pills I had been hoarding.

I tipped my head back, dry-swallowing the pills by the handful. The chalky tablets scraped the back of my throat, making me gag, but I forced them down until the bottle was empty.

On the desk, right next to my diary, sat a leather-bound binder. Inside were the recipes I had spent four years perfecting for his ulcer-prone stomach. It was my final parting gift to my husband.

I lay down in the center of the bed, crossed my hands over my chest, stared at the ceiling, and waited for death to arrive.

The apartment was dead silent.

Then, a frantic scratching erupted at my bedroom door.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Nova slammed his body against the wooden door, barking wildly.

I closed my eyes, tuning out the noise. The drugs hit me like a heavy blanket, dragging my consciousness down into the dark.

Nova kept screaming.

And then, there was nothing.