The boardroom at Woods Corp—my father's Porter Holdings, though no one seemed to remember that anymore—smelled like expensive cologne and stale ambition. I'd left early, citing a headache that wasn't entirely fabricated. The veteran board members had spent two hours mansplaining quarterly projections to me, the heiress who'd grown up reading financial statements at the breakfast table.

My heels clicked against the marble foyer of our Tribeca penthouse, the sound swallowed by thirty-foot ceilings and the kind of silence that costs millions to architect. I was reaching for my phone when I heard it—Adrian's voice, low and warm in a way it hadn't been with me in months.

Laughter. Feminine, bright, achingly familiar.

I froze halfway to the living room, my Hermès bag sliding down my shoulder.

"She actually cried when I told her the oncologist said six months." Adrian's voice drifted from the study, muffled but unmistakable. "I thought she was going to faint right there in the hospital parking lot."

Katie's giggle made my stomach turn. "You're terrible. She's been so devoted, bringing you those disgusting green smoothies every morning."

"The smoothies are the worst part of this whole charade," Adrian said, and I could hear the grin in his voice. "But it's almost over. Three more weeks and we'll be in Tuscany, sipping actual wine instead of wheatgrass."

My hand found the wall. The imported Italian plaster felt cold beneath my palm, solid when everything else was dissolving.

I moved closer to the study door, left carelessly ajar. Through the gap, I could see them—Adrian lounging in my father's leather chair, the one I'd never had the heart to remove from the house. Katie perched on the edge of the mahogany desk, her skirt riding high on her thighs, her hand resting possessively on his shoulder.

My husband. His supposed cousin.

"How much did the last equipment kickback bring in?" Katie asked, twirling a strand of honey-blonde hair around her finger.

Adrian pulled up something on his laptop, angling the screen toward her. "Two point three million. The beauty of fake cancer treatment is that no one questions the costs. Experimental therapies, cutting-edge equipment—Skyler signed off on everything without even reading the invoices."

"And your mother's cut?"

"Daniela gets her twenty percent, same as always. She's the one who suggested the cancer angle in the first place." Adrian leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head. "My dear mother has a gift for manipulation. Must be where I get it from."

The offshore accounts. The forged medical records. Daniela, who'd held my hand at every fake doctor's appointment, who'd wept so convincingly when Adrian's hair started to thin—from stress, I'd thought, from the brutal weight of his diagnosis.

From hair-thinning shampoo, more likely.

"Three more weeks," Katie breathed, leaning down to kiss him. "New names, new life, new everything."

"And Skyler gets to play the grieving widow," Adrian murmured against her mouth. "She'll look beautiful in black. It's really her color."

I stepped back from the door, my breath coming in silent, controlled measures. My father's watch pressed against my wrist beneath my silk blouse—the vintage Patek Philippe he'd worn every day of his life, the one he'd left me with instructions to "never let anyone take what's yours."

I'd failed him. I'd let Adrian rebrand Porter Holdings, let him install his people on the board, let him play the devoted husband while he systematically dismantled everything my father had built.

But I hadn't lost yet.

I moved through the penthouse like a ghost, retrieving the spare key to Adrian's home office from behind the Rothko in the hallway. He thought I didn't know about his safe, about the locked filing cabinet where he kept his real records. He'd underestimated me the same way the board did, the same way everyone in Manhattan's elite circles did—poor Skyler Porter, so trusting, so naive, so desperate to believe in love.

Two hours later, after they'd left for their "family dinner" with Daniela, I stood in Adrian's office with my phone's camera, methodically photographing every document in his safe. Offshore account numbers in the Caymans. Forged medical files with Dr. Harrison Chen's stolen signature. Three passports—Adrian Westbrook, Katherine Mason, and the third for Daniela under the name Diana Westwood.

The medical equipment invoices were works of fiction, payments to shell companies that funneled money into accounts beyond the reach of U.S. authorities. Or so Adrian believed.

I replaced everything exactly as I'd found it, locked the safe, returned the key.

That night, I stood in our bathroom, gripping my father's watch so tightly the metal bit into my palm. In the mirror, I looked exactly like what I was—a woman whose world had shattered. My reflection blurred behind tears I finally allowed to fall, hot and bitter and clarifying.

The bedroom door opened. Adrian shuffled in, his gait carefully weakened, his face pale beneath strategically applied makeup.

"Skyler?" His voice carried practiced fragility. "Are you okay?"

I turned to him, letting my face crumple, letting the devastation show. "I'm so scared," I whispered, crossing to him, taking his hands in mine. His fingers were warm, healthy, strong beneath the theatrical tremor. "I can't lose you, Adrian. I can't."

He pulled me close, and I felt his heartbeat against my cheek—steady, strong, the rhythm of a perfectly healthy man.

"You won't," he murmured, stroking my hair with the tenderness of a practiced liar. "I'm going to fight this. For us."

"I'll do anything," I said into his chest, meaning every word in ways he couldn't begin to comprehend. "Whatever it takes. I promise."

In the darkness, pressed against the man who'd betrayed everything we'd built, I smiled.

Let the games begin.

The Mandarin Oriental's Grand Ballroom glittered like the inside of a jewelry box—all crystal chandeliers and gold leaf, the kind of opulence that whispered old money instead of screaming it. I'd chosen the venue deliberately. My father had hosted his sixtieth birthday here, back when Porter Holdings was still called Porter Holdings, back when I'd believed in happy endings.

I stood at the podium in a champagne silk gown that cost more than most people's cars, my father's watch hidden beneath my sleeve like a talisman. Three hundred of Manhattan's elite watched me with expressions ranging from pity to curiosity. Adrian sat at the head table, his face carefully gaunt beneath stage makeup, his hand trembling just enough to sell the performance.

Katie sat three tables back, playing the devoted cousin in a modest black dress. Daniela dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, the grieving mother perfected down to the slight quiver of her chin.

"My father believed that wealth was a responsibility," I said, my voice catching exactly right. The microphone picked up every nuance, broadcast my pain to the room. "He taught me that those of us who have everything owe everything to those who are fighting just to survive."

Adrian smiled at me, warm and encouraging. He thought this was another photo opportunity, another chance to play the brave dying husband with his devoted wife.

He had no idea.

"That's why tonight, I'm announcing a fifteen-million-dollar donation to establish the Porter Experimental Oncology Wing at Manhattan Advanced Medical." I paused as applause rippled through the ballroom. "This facility will pioneer intensive combination therapies, treatments so cutting-edge that most insurance companies won't touch them. Treatments that could save lives."

I turned to Adrian, letting my eyes fill with tears that weren't entirely manufactured. Six months of marriage to a man who'd looked me in the eye every morning and lied. Six months of watching him plot my destruction while I played the fool.

"Adrian," I said, my voice breaking beautifully. "I know you've been hesitant about aggressive treatment. But this facility—it's our last hope. Dr. Kellan Peters and Dr. Yael Arnold are the best oncologists in the country. They've agreed to take you on as their first patient."

The room erupted. Cameras flashed. I watched Adrian's face cycle through confusion, then alarm, then settle into resigned gratitude. He couldn't refuse, not here, not with three hundred witnesses and a dozen reporters documenting his wife's desperate generosity.

He stood, his movements carefully weakened, and crossed to the podium. When he kissed my cheek, I smelled his cologne—the same scent he'd been wearing when I'd overheard him laughing about my devotion.

"You're too good to me," he whispered against my ear.

"I know," I whispered back.

---

Two days later, I sat across from Dr. Kellan Peters and Dr. Yael Arnold in a windowless conference room three floors below Manhattan Advanced Medical's lobby. The space smelled like antiseptic and the particular silence that comes from soundproofing designed to keep secrets.

I slid the folder across the table. "Offshore accounts in the Caymans. Forged medical records. Shell companies for equipment kickbacks. Three fake passports and a flight to Rome scheduled for three weeks from now."

Dr. Peters opened the folder, his expression unreadable behind wire-rimmed glasses. Dr. Arnold leaned over his shoulder, her dark eyes scanning the documents with the precision of someone trained to spot irregularities.

"He's been faking terminal pancreatic cancer," I said, keeping my voice level. Professional. "For six months. Using your profession, your colleagues' reputations, to steal millions from my family's company. Money that could have funded actual research. Actual treatments."

Dr. Arnold's jaw tightened. "How many real patients have been denied care because frauds like this drain healthcare resources?"

"Too many," Dr. Peters said quietly. He removed his glasses, cleaned them with methodical precision. "What exactly are you proposing, Mrs. Woods?"

"Ms. Porter," I corrected. "And I'm proposing justice. He wants to experience cancer? Let's give him the full experience. The nausea. The pain. The hair loss. Everything except the actual dying part."

Dr. Arnold's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "A cocktail of medications that produce severe side effects without causing permanent damage. Entirely possible. Entirely legal, given that he's consented to experimental treatment."

"We'd need complete control over his care," Dr. Peters said. "No outside doctors. No second opinions."

"Already arranged," I said. "The VIP suite is private. Soundproofed. He'll have the best care money can buy—just not the care he's expecting."

Dr. Peters studied me for a long moment. "Your father was a good man. He funded my research wing ten years ago. No strings attached, just believed in the work."

"He believed in a lot of things," I said. "Including that people should face consequences for their actions."

"Then let's make sure they do," Dr. Arnold said.

---

The VIP suite at Manhattan Advanced Medical looked more like a five-star hotel than a hospital room. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Central Park. The bed had Egyptian cotton sheets. Adrian lounged against the pillows, scrolling through his phone, probably texting Katie about how easy this was going to be.

Dr. Arnold entered with a smile that would have fooled anyone who hadn't seen the steel in her eyes two days ago. "Mr. Woods. Ready to begin your treatment?"

"Absolutely," Adrian said, setting his phone aside. "Whatever it takes, right?"

"Whatever it takes," Dr. Arnold agreed. She prepped the IV with practiced efficiency, the clear liquid catching the afternoon light. "This is our proprietary combination therapy. You might feel some mild discomfort as your body adjusts."

I stood by the window, watching clouds drift over the park. Behind me, I heard the soft click of the IV line connecting, the quiet beep of monitors.

"How long until—" Adrian's question cut off. His breath hitched. "Wait. Something's wrong. This doesn't feel—"

"Perfectly normal," Dr. Arnold said calmly. "The medication works quickly. Just breathe through it."

I turned in time to see Adrian's face go gray. Real gray, not stage-makeup gray. His hand clutched the sheets, knuckles whitening.

"Skyler," he gasped. "Something's wrong. This isn't—I need—"

I crossed to the bed, took his hand in mine. His palm was slick with sweat, his pulse racing beneath my fingers.

"This is the treatment, darling," I said softly. "The intensive therapy you agreed to. The experimental protocol that's going to save your life."

His eyes widened as understanding began to dawn, as the first wave of nausea hit him hard enough to make him double over.

"Remember?" I leaned close, my voice a whisper meant only for him. "You wanted to know what cancer felt like. Now you get to experience every single symptom."

I released his hand and stepped back, watching my husband—my betrayer—begin to truly suffer for the first time in his carefully orchestrated performance.

"Welcome to your treatment, Adrian," I said. "We're just getting started."