Silas didn't argue.

He walked with me to the upscale veterinary clinic on the corner. The vet ran a full diagnostic, and the results were heartbreaking. The dog had broken ribs, deep lacerations across his abdomen that exposed bone, and was severely malnourished.

Yet he was incredibly docile, lying quietly on the stainless-steel exam table, barely letting out a whimper as the doctor examined his wounds.

Silas stood in the corner of the sterile room, his jaw clenched tight, looking as though he wanted to speak but couldn't find the words.

We left the dog at the clinic overnight for observation. When the receptionist asked for the dog's name, I said without hesitation: "Nova."

His name, Nova.

My name, Nina.

After I die, he will become the echo of Nina.

When we walked into the apartment, the silence between us was so heavy it was nearly suffocating. Silas said nothing, and I had no desire to break the quiet.

The tension lingered until we both retreated to the master bedroom.

I sat on the edge of the bed, watching Silas emerge from the master bathroom in dark silk pajamas.

The warm lighting cast a glow across his face, softening the sharp, authoritative lines of his jaw.

He rarely showed emotion; his smiles were fleeting, dissipating like dying stars. For four years, I firmly believed I had captured a piece of his heart.

But seeing him with Serena today made all my previous hopes feel incredibly foolish and pathetic.

"Silas," I called out softly.

He stopped and looked at me, his deep eyes guarded and unreadable.

"Does what you said still count?" I asked.

"What thing?"

"You said—" I paused, letting the silence stretch. "You said I was your wife. You said you would treat me well for the rest of your life."

I gazed at him, the corners of my lips curling into a sad, meaningful smile.

Silas dropped his gaze to the floor, murmuring cautiously, "Why are you suddenly asking this?"

"Nothing," I lied casually. "Just reminiscing."

Deep in my abdomen, a sharp cramp struck. The cancer had woken up for the night. My nerves felt like they were being wound around a spool, pulled tighter and tighter.

"They count," he said softly.

The moment the words left his mouth, he reached out and turned off the light. I was instantly plunged into darkness, feeling the mattress dip slightly.

His tall frame moved close to me, and I felt his warm breath brush against my cheek before his lips gently pressed against my forehead.

"Goodnight, Nina."

I lay perfectly still. As his breathing leveled out into a deep sleep, I carefully untangled myself from his embrace and rolled over to face him.

Through the bright moonlight spilling through the glass, my eyes traced the contours of his face—the high arch of his brow, the slight slope of his nose, the sharp cut of his jawline.

Silas wouldn't cheat.

He was too proud, too disciplined to stoop to an extramarital affair. But deep in his heart, Serena Thorne would always hold the dominant position.

I suddenly found myself consumed by a dark, morbid curiosity.

After I die, when he lies in this bed alone and remembers this moment... what will he think?

Earlier that day, leaving the vet clinic, my mind had been a tangled, suffocating mess. After the initial panic, the first thought that surfaced was: What happens to Silas if I die?

He would eventually remarry.

I had even thought about it rationally. Serena was divorced. I would be gone. Them getting together wouldn't be a scandal; it would be a tragic, romantic reunion.

Everything would be fine.

But today, seeing them laugh together, seeing him hold her while I stood there with my internal organs bleeding out... I changed my mind. I took back everything I had said.

I remembered the first time I truly understood who Serena was.

It was my tenth birthday. My mom had scraped together enough money to take me for afternoon tea at the Plaza Hotel. It was unbelievably luxurious, full of hushed voices and gleaming gold.

A few tables away sat a family of three, their faces radiating happiness. The little girl, wearing a custom velvet dress and a sparkling tiara, giggled endlessly. Her father sat across from her, snapping photos with an expensive camera, his eyes overflowing with adoration.

When the man got up to use the restroom, he turned his head. The fork in my hand slipped, clattering loudly against the porcelain plate.

My mother noticed my shock. She followed my gaze, and a tired, resigned look crossed her face. "Do you want to go say hi?" she asked softly. "He is your father, after all."

When the man returned to the table, the little girl practically leaped out of her chair and threw her arms around his neck. He caught her, lifting her high into the air, their laughter ringing like clear bells.

I shook my head, my eyes burning.

The father in my memory was a cold, irritable man who yelled at me whenever I tried to show him my drawings or ask for a hug. For years, I had convinced myself he just didn't know how to express love.

That day, watching Serena, I finally understood the truth.

He wasn't incapable of love; he just didn't love me.

Everything I had ever desperately wanted, Serena got with effortless ease.

And now, she had come back for my husband.

I continued to play the fool.

I remained steadfastly devoted to Silas, pretending I couldn't smell the lingering gardenia perfume on his collar, pretending I hadn't seen the carefully cropped photos Serena posted on her Instagram stories—a familiar watch face resting on a coffee table, the sleeve of Silas's signature Tom Ford suit.

To the world, they were subtle; but to me, they were glaringly obvious.

I would stare at her posts until the screen dimmed, then carefully tap the little heart icon to like them.

I said nothing. I worked hard to keep the surface of our marriage as calm and reflective as a frozen lake, but beneath the ice, dark currents swirled, brewing a devastating storm.

However, things were changing.

I officially resigned from the art gallery. Nova finally came home from the vet, bringing a lively, joyful energy to the otherwise quiet apartment.

I also started writing in my diary again.

I bought a thick, leather-bound notebook and wrote in it every day. I recorded the trivial details of daily life, as well as the painful, rapid deterioration of my body.

Sleep became a luxury. The dull ache in my abdomen was constant.

I still cooked for Silas every day, but when I sat at the granite counter with my own plate, the smell of the food made my stomach violently revolt.

I went back to Queens one last time. We sat in my mother's living room and had the exact same fifteen-minute polite conversation.

While she went to make tea, I slipped a debit card—with the PIN taped to the back—into a novel on her coffee table. It held almost my entire life savings.

When I was leaving, she walked me to the front porch. Her eyes lingered on my pale face a second longer than usual. "Take care of yourself, Nina," she said.

"Thank you, you too," I replied.

My mother would be fine. She hadn't loved my father, and she had never really known how to love me, but she had fulfilled her duty. She raised me.

My father eventually went bankrupt, his fund wiped out in a massive scandal, which felt like poetic justice.

My mother, however, had found peace. She married a good man, had a son, and built the family she had always wanted.

I was just a ghost from a painful past she had moved on from.