Greyson stayed with Emily after her IV treatment and drove her home.

She clung to his arm, reluctant to let him go, and he showed no hurry to leave.

"Greyson," she said, her voice fragile, "I've been so low lately. When I'm feeling better, can we take a trip somewhere?"

"Of course," he agreed readily.

Emily's family had fallen on hard times after her father's business collapsed, turning her from a pampered heiress to a struggling nobody.

Greyson understood her pain, especially as she complained of constant aches. He wanted to be her protector.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked. "Name the place, and I'll make it happen. I can take care of you now."

Emily's eyes sparkled. "Thank you. You're so nice."

I watched them, a bitter smile on my lips.

Greyson had always been too busy for me. We never took a honeymoon, and in five years of marriage, he rarely spared time for a simple date.

I never complained, playing the dutiful wife and managing his every need. His ignoring was all I received.

I tried to rekindle his affection with new makeup or stylish clothes, but it was futile. The moment Emily appeared, I vanished from his world.

Whenever he chose her over me, I'd argue with him. He'd respond with silence or call me childish.

Alive, I couldn't change it. Now, hovering between life and death, I was still powerless.

Greyson stayed at her place for the night. They didn't share a bed, but their growing closeness was undeniable.

The next day, I followed him to the office.

Instead of focusing on his demanding job, he was on the phone, booking first-class flights and luxury hotels for a trip with Emily. He had no idea I was fighting for my life. It was as if I didn't even exist.

While my mother sat by my bedside, weeping, Greyson was living a dream with another woman. They visited trendy cities, savored local cuisines, and snapped beautiful photos.

He kept things proper, booking separate rooms. He treated her like a delicate treasure. Emily radiated joy, but I felt no more jealousy.

I knew their happiness wouldn't last. Greyson never valued what he had. He didn't know how to hold onto joy.

A month later, their adventure ended.

Greyson returned home, weary. He opened the door to a grim scene: rotting food on the table and a dark stain on the floor.

The stench hit him, and his face twisted in disgust. He grabbed his phone and dialed my number. My phone, dead on the couch, didn't answer.

He called again and again. By the fourth try, he shouted into my voicemail. "If you want a divorce, just say so. Stop these stupid games. This place is a wreck. Come back, and we'll end this now."

The voicemail's cold beep was the only reply Greyson received.

He seethed for a while. Then he put away his phone and stormed back to Emily's place.

After a month of traveling with her, he looked drained. When he mentioned he was hungry, she chirped, "I'll order takeout. What do you feel like?"

Greyson frowned at the suggestion. Weeks of restaurant food and street eats had taken a toll on his stomach.

Emily failed to sense his reluctance, and he masked it with a smile. "Whatever you want is fine."

But I knew he was craving homemade food.

He had a fragile stomach, and he was fussy about food. He hated onions, peanut oil, organ meats, and fish with tiny bones. I'd memorized his preferences, tailoring every meal to his tastes.

When work dinners left him sick, I'd prepare light dishes to soothe his stomach and lift his spirits.

He never appreciated it. To him, my efforts were just the duty of a wife he provided for.

Emily, on the other hand, was his princess.

She was born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Of course, she didn't cook. Her hands were not for that.

When the takeout arrived, Greyson picked at it, barely eating.

Emily noticed. "Not your thing?"

He shook his head, but I caught the disappointment in his eyes.

She probed, "It seems you don't quite like these popular dishes. What do you like to eat? I'll order it next time."

Greyson shrugged. "I'm not fussy. Some salad or a rib soup would do."

His voice carried a trace of longing, though it was quickly gone.

I wanted to tell him that even simple dishes required care and effort. But now, it didn't matter anymore. My heart was done with him.

He ate little, then cleared the takeout boxes and stepped outside to toss the trash. Alone, he tried my number again. Three calls, all to a dead phone.

He paced back and forth, then scrolled through his contacts. Unfortunately, he didn't know my friends, and I had left my job, drifting from old colleagues.

Out of options, he called my mom.

When she answered, he snapped, "How long is Shannon gonna drag this out? Tell her to quit the drama, or we're through."

My mom had no clue how much I'd endured for Greyson.

To spare her worry, I'd always reassured her. "I'm happy with Greyson. He loves me. I'm not struggling, and I'm not the kind to settle for an unhappy marriage either."

She trusted me. Now, faced with the hard reality, she was devastated.

"What kind of husband are you?" she shouted. "Shannon has been in the ICU for a month. You don't care, and you think she's being dramatic?"

I'd never heard her so fierce. She was always gentle, almost timid. But for me, she was ready to take on anyone.

"You ingrate!" she snapped. "You don't deserve my daughter."

Greyson paused at her outburst, then lashed back. "Stop making things up. Shannon in the ICU? No way. She acted out alone in the past, and now she has roped you into her act. Come on!"

I saw disbelief in his eyes, but more than that, I saw contempt and irritation. It hit me how callous he could be.

Holly's voice cracked with fury. "Shannon will never forgive you, not even in death! And you will pay for this! I'll make sure of it!"

Greyson gripped the phone, his veins bulging. "Shut up! Shannon's not dead. Tell her to come home. If she wants to die, she can divorce me first."