Lyra was jolted awake.

When her eyes opened, Wesley's face was right there. Dark. Empty. Not a trace of warmth.

"Irene lost too much blood. She needs a transfusion," he said flatly. "You have the same blood type. Get up."

Lyra went still, then shook her head. "I'm already anemic. If I give blood, something will go wrong."

Wesley laughed under his breath, cold and sharp. "When you hurt her, did you think about consequences?"

Her eyes flew open. "I hurt her?"

"Drop the act." Wesley flicked his hand in irritation. Two bodyguards stepped in at once, gripping her arms. "Once the blood's drawn, we're even."

Lyra struggled, but she was no match for two grown men.

They hauled her out of bed and dragged her toward the transfusion room, her steps unsteady.

The hallway lights were harsh. Her vision swam, and a memory surfaced from when they'd just gotten married.

She'd been dizzy from anemia back then. Wesley had made tomato soup, feeding her one spoonful at a time, worry filling his eyes.

"Lyra, if you ever feel sick again, you have to tell me," he'd said softly. "I can't stand seeing you suffer."

Now he watched without emotion as she was forced into the transfusion chair.

Blood flowed steadily into the bag.

Her face drained of color. Her lips went pale. Her fingers turned icy.

The doctor frowned and lowered his voice. "Mr. Cheswick, your wife is too weak. If this continues, it could be dangerous."

Wesley looked at Lyra's bloodless face. His brow tightened, hesitation flickering for a split second.

Then his voice hardened. "Continue."

Lyra closed her eyes.

It felt like her heart was being crushed.

'So he really doesn't care if I live or die.'

After the transfusion, she could barely stay on her feet. Darkness swirled in her vision.

Seeing her sway, Wesley reached out to steady her, his tone easing. "You look terrible."

She didn't answer. She knocked his hand away and leaned against the wall, forcing herself forward.

Wesley frowned and followed. "I had someone make tomato soup for you. Drink some later."

Lyra stopped.

She turned back, mockery filling her eyes. "What, worried I'll die and won't be able to give Irene blood anymore?"

Wesley's face darkened. He was about to respond when a doctor hurried over.

"Mr. Cheswick, Ms. Shmuck is bleeding heavily again. The blood earlier wasn't enough."

Lyra's pupils shrank. She stepped back on instinct. "No. I can't do this again."

Wesley looked at her paper-white face. Conflict flashed through his eyes.

Then his jaw set. "Keep drawing."

Cold flooded Lyra, like she'd been dropped into ice water.

She looked at him, her voice barely there. "I'll die."

He turned his face away. "You won't."

After the second transfusion, Lyra was barely conscious.

She sagged in the chair, breathing shallow, her vision cutting in and out.

As he saw how drained she looked, panic finally flickered across Wesley's face. He reached for her. "Lyra."

She shoved him away. Bracing herself against the wall, she made her way back to the ward step by step, slow and agonizing.

Wesley watched her go. Her back looked so thin it seemed like it might give out at any moment, yet she never turned around.

He stood there as she vanished down the corridor, a tight unease settling in his chest.

Beside him, the doctor spoke up. "Mr. Cheswick, Ms. Shmuck's condition has stabilized."

Wesley snapped out of it, nodded, and in the end, didn't follow Lyra.

Lyra lay on the hospital bed, her whole body freezing.

The soup Wesley had sent sat on the nightstand. Cold now. She reached for it, trying to sip, but her hands shook too hard to keep the spoon steady.

Pain knifed through her lower stomach, sharp and relentless.

She grit her teeth. "Doctor," she called, barely loud enough to hear.

The door swung open. The doctor took one look at her color, lifted the blanket, and froze.

The sheets were soaked through with blood.

"You're severely anemic," he said, voice tight. "This level of blood loss is dangerous—especially after donating so much. We need emergency surgery, now, or your life's at risk."

She closed her eyes and nodded. "Okay."

After a beat, she added quietly, "Don't tell Wesley."

***

Lyra lay on the cold operating table, her awareness slipping. It felt like being dragged back five years.

The first time they met, Wesley had waited for her in the rain, eyes soft, full of warmth.

At their wedding, he'd held her hand and promised, "Lyra, I'll be good to you for the rest of my life."

Later, he changed. He thought she was too strong, not gentle enough, always above everyone else.

She believed it was her fault. That she wasn't enough. So she tried to behave, to obey, to soften herself into someone smaller.

Only now did she understand.

It was never that she wasn't good enough.

He had simply never loved her.

The anesthesia crept in. Cold instruments brushed her skin. She closed her eyes. One tear slid down.

The baby was gone.

And these five years of marriage were over too.

***

After the surgery, Lyra was wheeled back to her room.

The nurse tucked the blanket around her. "Ma'am, get some rest."

Lyra asked softly, "Did Wesley come by?"

The nurse paused, then shook her head. "No."

Lyra pulled at the corner of her mouth. She already knew.

She pushed herself up and walked to the window.

In the garden below, Wesley was supporting Irene as they moved slowly along the path. Irene looked healthy, glowing, leaning into him as she acted spoiled. He bent toward her, eyes gentle, full of care.

Lyra watched in silence. It felt like her heart was being cut open, piece by piece.

Once, he'd taken care of her the same way.

She turned away, pulled the signed divorce agreement from her bag, and set it neatly on the bed.

Then she left without looking back.

At the end of the hallway, the people Victor had sent were already waiting.

"Ms. Leighton, the car's downstairs."

Lyra glanced back one last time at Wesley helping Irene into the building.

She stepped into the elevator and never turned back.