That day, when I had my ninth drink, Armani decided it was time to end the party. He carried me home, just like he used to when I was sick, and made me a pot of hangover soup, feeding it to me one spoonful at a time.

As night fell and sleep started to take over, I heard Armani break the silence. "Mikayla, why didn't you answer today's question?"

His words startled me awake. I turned to look at him, but he was facing the other way. Even though we lay on the same bed, close enough to reach out and touch, it felt like our hearts were miles apart.

Gently, I asked, "Armani, do you really want to know the answer?"

He was quiet for a long time. "It's late. You should get some sleep," he eventually said.

Tears rolled quietly down my face. I suddenly remembered when he first arrived in this city, his eyes so genuine, as if the person in front of him was his whole world. "Mikayla, I promise I'll give you a wonderful life," he had vowed then, his eyes shining with love every time they met mine.

Nineteen-year-old Mikayla was overflowing with love and filled with the intense affection of nineteen-year-old Armani. I was a lively and optimistic young woman.

But now, at twenty-six, Mikayla Morrison is all alone, with my parents gone and a cancer diagnosis looming over me.

Armani, is this the wonderful life you once promised me?

I watched his sleeping profile, still able to see glimpses of the rebellious spirit in his brow. Tears slipped silently down my cheeks.

You once loved me so deeply. How can you now bear to make me so miserable?

The next day, I woke up to find Armani had already left for work. The aftermath of last night’s drinking hit me hard; my stomach felt like it was in a storm, as though it was tearing me apart from the inside. The pain was so intense I found myself wishing for an escape.

I lay on the floor, quickly swallowing a few painkillers. They were imported and quite expensive, and my supply was nearly drained due to frequent use. I checked my phone to see my account balance.

Less than $10,000.

This money was what I had saved before I got sick. It’s ironic how Armani has a million-dollar fortune, yet as his wife, I struggle to afford life-saving medication.

After calculating the cost of the private hospital, I decided to switch to a public one. Clutching my appointment slip, I entered the examination room.

The doctor looked at me with surprise. "Mikayla?"

I looked up, a smile breaking through the paleness of my face.

"Ashton, it’s been ages."

Ashton is my neighbor, three years older than me. He frowned and glanced over my medical records.

"Where’s your husband? Chemotherapy is incredibly tough to face alone; you need family support."

I shook my head, feeling the heaviness of it. "He’s very busy. It’s okay, I’ve had chemo at another hospital before. I managed on my own."

Ashton's gaze softened with empathy. "You used to cry at the slightest hint of pain."

I brushed it off with a resigned smile. "I had someone to spoil me back then. Now…”

I forced a smile, unwilling to show my vulnerability in front of this brother-like figure from my past. Ashton tactfully shifted the conversation.

"I need to thoroughly assess your condition. Today’s not ideal for chemotherapy; come back tomorrow."

I got up, thanked him, and was about to leave when he called after me.

"How about grabbing a bite together? Let’s celebrate this reunion after so long."