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.

I should have asked him.

A normal wife would have screamed, demanded answers, or at least asked about the perfume. But I just stood there, my mouth opening slightly and then snapping shut. I said nothing. As if everything about the night was perfectly ordinary.

The next morning, I woke up before dawn. There was a dull, persistent ache in my upper abdomen, but I ignored it and dragged myself out of bed to make breakfast.

Silas suffered from severe stress-induced gastritis.

Two years ago, he had a severe flare-up and was hospitalized at NYU Langone for half a month. I stayed by his bedside every single day, sleeping in an uncomfortable plastic chair and helping him manage his emails.

The nurses would often whisper about how lucky he was to have such a devoted, diligent wife.

I remember one afternoon during that hospital stay. Silas was sitting up against the stark white pillows, his face pale, looking exhausted. As I peeled an apple for him, his deep, unfathomable eyes tracked my movements with a blank expression.

"We could hire a private nurse, Nina," he said, his voice raspy.

My knife slipped, breaking the apple peel. He noticed and said, "You don't have to work this hard."

"It's not the same," I replied softly.

People always assume that doing things yourself is more valuable than paying a stranger to do it. When you love someone, you naturally care for them far more than anyone hired to do a job.

He asked, "What's the difference?"

I looked at him and gave a silly, genuine smile. "Because you're my husband."

Ever since he was discharged, curing his stomach issues had become my personal mission.

Silas was a workaholic who frequently forgot to eat when the markets were volatile. So, I started waking up early every day to prepare stomach-friendly meals for him. If I had the time, I'd order an Uber and deliver a hot lunch directly to the Financial District.

Over the years, these routines had become second nature.

Today, Silas woke up earlier than usual. Before I could even reach out to help adjust his tie, he grabbed the insulated bento box off the marble counter and hurried toward the elevator.

Right before the doors opened, he paused and looked back at me standing in the kitchen. In that fleeting second, the coldness in his eyes seemed to melt into a sliver of warmth, like the first ray of sunlight hitting pristine snow.

"I'm leaving, Nina," he said.

"Drive safely," I replied. Just like countless mornings before.