The diagnosis report crumpled in her hand, its edges curling like the abruptly withering remains of her own life.

“Late-stage gastric cancer... estimated remaining time, no more than three months.”

The doctor’s calm voice still echoed in her ears, each word merciless, each one piercing Carolyn’s heart.

Trembling, she fumbled for her phone. That number, memorized by heart, sat pinned at the top of her contacts.

After an agonizingly long dial tone, the call connected. Ronald’s steady, composed voice came through.

“Carolyn? What is it?”

Her throat tightened. She forced her voice calm. “Ronald, if... just if, I don’t have much time left... what would you do?”

A brief silence stretched. She could almost hear the roar of her own heartbeat.

Finally, he spoke, his tone still even. “Don’t talk nonsense. I’ll stay with you. Until the end.”

Reliable as ever—an anchor in her unsteady world.

Even knowing this might have nothing to do with love, that it was just Ronald’s ingrained sense of duty, Carolyn’s heart was briefly soothed by that single word: *stay*.

See? At least he wouldn’t abandon her.

She tried to twist her lips into a smile, one that probably looked worse than crying.

But before that smile could reach her eyes, it was utterly crushed the very next second.

At the hospital lobby entrance, a sudden, urgent commotion.

There was the man who had just promised over the phone to stay with her until the end, now carrying a slender woman in his arms, rushing in with frantic steps.

His face held a panic she’d never seen before, fine beads of sweat dotting his temples.

“Doctor! Where’s a doctor!”

His voice had lost all its usual composure, laced with an unmistakable tremor, raw with urgency.

Carolyn felt nailed to the spot, her blood turning to ice.

Instinctively, she shrank back into the shadow of a pillar. She watched as Ronald carefully laid the girl on a gurney, listened as he rapidly described her condition to the doctors—his worry and fear so thick they seemed tangible.

So, Ronald wasn’t always calm and controlled.

He could panic. He could lose all composure. For someone.

It’s just that someone had never been her. Never Carolyn.

A sharp pain lanced through her chest, a thousand times worse than the cancer’s discomfort.

She watched them disappear down the emergency corridor, and with them, the last of her strength seemed to drain away.

Carolyn returned home, her spirit broken.

From the depths of a drawer, she pulled out the marriage certificate with its red cover and gold lettering. Cold to the touch, it held not a shred of warmth.

In the photo, she was smiling, eyes crinkled, her heart and gaze full of the man beside her.

And Ronald? He simply looked calmly at the camera, distant and polite.

Over twenty years of growing up together. All that time, she’d spent chasing his shadow.

When his family’s fortunes fell, it was she who used their marriage as a bargaining chip, begging her parents to save the crumbling foundation of the Ronald family.

The day she proposed, she’d said, “Ronald, let’s get married. You don’t have to like me. Just give me the title.”

He’d been silent for a long, long time—so long Carolyn thought he’d refuse.

Finally, he’d looked up, his eyes a deep pool she couldn’t fathom. “Carolyn, I will never let you down.”

She’d once foolishly asked, “If you ever meet someone you truly love, tell me. I’ll let you go.”

Back then, Ronald had simply smiled faintly, reaching out to ruffle her hair. “Don’t overthink it. Since I married you, I’ll give you a reliable future.”

A reliable future...

Carolyn’s tears finally broke through, scalding as they fell onto the cold plastic laminate, blurring the image beneath.

Night deepened. A faint click sounded from the entryway—the key turning in the lock.

Carolyn hurriedly wiped her tears and shoved the marriage certificate back into its place.

The door opened. Ronald walked in.

And right behind him followed the girl who had made him lose all composure at the hospital.

“Who is she?”

Carolyn heard the faint tremor threading through her own voice.

Ronald shrugged off his suit jacket—a casual, effortless motion. His gaze swept over her, cool and detached. “Victoria. Mr Victoria’s daughter. He had to leave the country unexpectedly and asked me to look after her for a few days.”

*Mr Victoria. Look after her.*

What a convenient excuse.

Her heart sank like a stone.

So his panic this morning, his personal escort home tonight—all of it was just business. Just because of some client?

Victoria studied Carolyn openly, her eyes sharp with a spoiled girl’s entitlement. Clearly dissatisfied with Ronald’s brief introduction, she swept her gaze over Carolyn once more before pointing a dismissive finger. “Ronald, I’m starving. Have her make me something to eat.”

It was less a request than a command, spoken as if ordering a servant.

The air in the room thickened.

“Victoria!” Ronald’s voice dropped, edged with warning. “Mind your manners. She is not a servant.” He paused, his eyes shifting back to Carolyn, his tone careful and distant. “This is my wife, Carolyn.”

The word *wife* hung in the air, weightless and insubstantial.

He turned to the housekeeper. “Rebecca, prepare a few of Ms Victoria’s favorite dishes. She prefers seafood, light on the seasoning.”

Dinner was served swiftly. Across the polished dining table lay an array of seafood: Dover sole meunière, prawn cocktail, scallops wrapped in prosciutto.

The aroma was rich, but it churned Carolyn’s stomach into a violent sea.

Ronald picked up a tender piece of fish and placed it on her plate. “Have some.”

Her throat tightened. “Ronald, you know I’m allergic to seafood.”

It was usually a mild allergy, nothing more than an inconvenience. But now, weakened and exhausted, her reaction would be severe.

Victoria immediately set down her seafood fork, lips forming a petulant pout. “Ronald, what’s her problem? Is she saying she doesn’t want me here?”

Ronald’s brow furrowed. He looked at Carolyn, his voice low and firm. “Carolyn, Mr Victoria’s help was crucial. He pulled the company out of that crisis. Just a little bit won’t hurt. Be reasonable.”

*Reasonable?* He wanted her to be *reasonable*.

Under the combined weight of his and Victoria’s stares, a wave of utter exhaustion washed over her. Slowly, silently, she lifted the piece of fish to her mouth.

Almost instantly, a sharp, stabbing pain lanced through her stomach—more violent than anything she’d ever felt before. She pressed a hand to her abdomen, fighting down a surge of nausea.

When the agonizing meal finally ended, Ronald was still patiently fielding Victoria’s endless, chirping questions.

It was time. Whether he believed her, whether he cared—she had to tell him the truth. About her illness. About the little time she had left.

Carolyn took a deep breath and walked toward him. “Ronald, I—”

A sharp gasp cut her off.

“Ah!”

It was Victoria.

She stood by the living room display cabinet, where she’d been holding the framed wedding photo of Carolyn and Ronald. Now the frame lay shattered on the floor, glass shards glittering in the light.

Victoria clutched her finger, a bright bead of blood welling from the tip. “It hurts…” Her voice trembled, on the verge of tears, her eyes seeking Ronald.

His expression shifted instantly. He was on his feet, sweeping Victoria into his arms and carefully depositing her on the sofa. Kneeling, he inspected the small wound with an intensity Carolyn had never seen directed at her. “How could you be so careless? You just fell this morning, and now this!”

His scolding was soft, almost tender. He fetched the first-aid kit and began cleaning the cut with meticulous gentleness, his focus absolute—as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.

Carolyn stood frozen, an awkward intruder in her own home.

Tears surged without warning, blurring her vision. Her skin began to itch; angry red hives blossomed and spread rapidly.

The world tilted, spun, darkened.

The last thing she saw was the silhouette of Ronald, still bent over Victoria’s hand, utterly absorbed.

The sharp scent of disinfectant cut through the haze, pulling Carolyn back to consciousness.

Her body was still weak—a dull ache in her stomach, a lingering itch on her skin, constant reminders. She glanced around the sterile room. The figure she’d half-expected, half-hoped to find waiting beside her was nowhere to be seen.

Groping weakly beside the pillow, her fingers found her phone. The screen lit up, a single WeChat notification glaring back.

Sender: Ronald.

Time: Three hours ago.

**[Urgent meeting at the office. I’ve gone ahead. If you’re awake and feel fine, go home and rest.]**

Concise. Professional. Detached.

No inquiry about how she felt. No explanation for his absence. Not even a perfunctory word of comfort.

As though her collapse yesterday had been nothing more than a minor head cold.

Carolyn ripped the IV needle from the back of her hand, ignoring the protest of her body and the nurse’s objections. She signed herself out.

A taxi dropped her off at the imposing glass-and-steel tower that housed Ronald's Group.

She didn’t know why she’d come. Perhaps she needed to see the cruelty with her own eyes—to make it undeniable.

The elevator carried her soundlessly to the top floor, to the executive conference suites. Through the heavy, frosted glass doors, she could make out blurred shapes inside.

Driven by something nameless, she pushed the door open a crack.

At the head of the long conference table sat Ronald, impeccably suited, his profile sharp and cold as he listened to a subordinate’s report. And right beside him, pressed close, was Victoria.

Victoria seemed utterly bored by the proceedings, idly scrolling through her phone. She leaned over and whispered something into Ronald’s ear. He tilted his head slightly to listen, not a trace of impatience on his face.

Then Victoria reached out and casually tapped the screen of Ronald’s open laptop.

The screen went dark. The presenter paused.

Ronald’s reaction froze the blood in Carolyn’s veins.

He didn’t get angry. He didn’t scold her. He didn’t even look annoyed.

He simply turned toward Victoria, the corner of his mouth lifting in the faintest hint of a smile. “Don’t mess around,” he said, his tone carrying a note of indulgent exasperation—as if chiding a mischievous child.

A long time ago, Carolyn had once come to his office during a meeting, missing him. She hadn’t dared to interrupt, waiting quietly in the lounge outside. When Ronald finally emerged and saw her, his brow had furrowed. He’d led her inside, his voice stern. “This is a workplace, not home. Stay in my office. Don’t wander around. It’s unprofessional.”

And now, he allowed another woman to casually tamper with his work equipment in the middle of a serious meeting.

The truth, cold and brutal, settled over her. She had been lying to herself all along.

Numbly, she turned from the conference room door. Her feet carried her, as if of their own volition, toward Ronald’s private office.

She pushed open the heavy mahogany door. The familiar, clean, masculine scent of his space washed over her—now undercut by a faint, cloying sweetness of perfume.

The office was as immaculate and efficient as ever, a testament to its owner’s discipline. But her gaze was instantly, irrevocably drawn to the expensive leather sofa in the lounge area.

It was no longer the sleek, minimalist piece she remembered. Now it lay buried under a mountain of fluffy, cutesy stuffed animals—a garish, jarring invasion in the room’s severe aesthetic.

Carolyn walked over in a daze. Her fingers trembled as she reached out, brushing against a rabbit plushie dressed in a frilly princess gown.

Just then, the office door opened. Ronald’s assistant walked in, arms laden with files. Seeing Carolyn and the toy in her hand, a flicker of acute discomfort crossed the assistant’s face.

“Mrs Ronald… those were Miss Victoria’s request. She said the office was too cold and impersonal, uncomfortable to sit in. She insisted on putting them there.”

*Miss Victoria’s request.*

So, the one who could make him break his own rules, cross his own boundaries, was Victoria.

A violent, twisting pain seized her chest—so sharp she nearly doubled over.

“What are you doing here?”

A low voice cut through the silence from the doorway.

Ronald stood there, the meeting evidently over. His eyes went immediately to the plushie in her hand.

He strode over, almost hurriedly, and plucked the toy from her grasp.

Then, with a care that felt like a physical blow, he placed it back on the sofa, even adjusting its position so it leaned more comfortably against the others.

Only then did he turn to Carolyn, his expression settling back into its usual cool composure. “Why are you here? I told you to go home and rest.”

A hysterical laugh bubbled in Carolyn’s throat.

Her husband—snatching a toy from her hands as if guarding someone else’s world.