I always imagined that when I died, people would cry for me.
That my husband would cradle my frail hand, tears slipping down his handsome face, whispering how he couldn't live without me. That he'd kiss my forehead and tell me I was the love of his life.
But as I sat in Logan Carter's marble office, holding the crumpled pathology report with trembling fingers, I realised I had been delusional all along.
"Logan…" My voice cracked, raw from hours of silent tears. "I… I went to the doctor yesterday."
He didn't even glance up from his laptop. His sculpted jaw flexed as he scrolled through something more important than me.
"Doctor?" he said absently, typing swiftly. "What for?"
I swallowed hard, tasting salt and bile. My heart pounded so loudly I could barely hear myself.
"They found something… abnormal in my tests last week. I went for further scans."
Finally, he looked up, cool gray eyes locking onto mine with mild impatience. "And?"
My chest constricted with pain sharper than the cancer eating away at my body.
"It's ovarian cancer," I whispered, tears pooling in my eyes. "Stage II."
For a split second, his eyes flickered. Surprise? Annoyance? I couldn't tell. But whatever it was, it disappeared as quickly as it came.
"So?" he said flatly.
I felt my entire world collapse in that single syllable.
So.
So.
So?
He leaned back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers as if assessing quarterly losses. "Do whatever treatment you need to. Just make sure you're back in time for the Carter Foundation gala next month. I don't want questions about my absent wife overshadowing the event."
I stared at him, my tears blurring his perfect face into nothing but a cold silhouette.
For three years, I chased after him like a lost puppy. I abandoned my art career, my dreams, even my dignity, just to be the wife he wanted. I changed my hair, my clothes, my words. I molded myself into a woman he could display on his arm at business parties and tuck away neatly when the night was done.
But today, something inside me broke.
And for the first time in years, I felt something unexpected.
Relief.
---
Outside, the afternoon sun glared harshly against the glass skyscrapers of Manhattan. I stumbled onto the bustling street, the wind whipping my hair across tear-streaked cheeks. Taxis honked, tourists laughed, life moved on around me as if nothing had changed.
But everything had.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Paige.
"Hey babe," she chirped. "How was the appointment? You disappeared last night, I was worried sick."
I inhaled shakily, forcing words out of my tight throat. "I… I have cancer, Paige."
Silence.
Then her voice, trembling. "Oh my god… Maddy…"
"I'm okay," I lied. "I'm okay."
"Does Logan know?"
I let out a hollow laugh, startling a passerby. "Yeah. He knows."
"And… what did he say?"
I closed my eyes, tears spilling out.
"So."
She gasped. "That's it?! That's all he said?!"
"Yeah."
I heard her inhale sharply. "Leave him. Right now. Come stay with me. I'll take care of you. Screw him, Maddy."
"No," I whispered. "No, Paige. I… I just need time to think."
We ended the call, but her words echoed in my skull.
Leave him.
Leave him.
Leave him.
Could I? After everything I gave up just to be Mrs. Logan Carter?
I wandered aimlessly until I reached Riverside Park. The river glimmered under the sunset, waves lapping softly against mossy rocks. I sank onto a bench, clutching the medical report to my chest, breathing in the smell of water and grass and dying leaves.
I remembered being fifteen, sitting here sketching cherry blossoms while dreaming of art school. Back then, I thought love would be flowers, handwritten notes, long walks, warm kisses. I thought a husband would protect my dreams, not bury them.
How naïve I was.
---
By the time I returned to our penthouse, night had fallen. The glittering cityscape beyond the windows looked unreal, like someone else's life behind glass.
Logan wasn't home yet. He rarely was. I walked into the guest room – my room – and flicked on the lamp. The small space was filled with my untouched canvases, dry paints, and brushes still in plastic wraps. Dreams I had stuffed away to fit into his world.
I sat down, tears flowing silently. For the first time in three years, I picked up a brush. My fingers felt stiff, clumsy. But as I dipped it into vermillion red and dragged it across the white canvas, something inside me awakened.
I didn't paint for him.
I didn't paint for anyone.
I painted for me.
For the girl I abandoned. For the woman I was becoming. For the dying body I still called home.
The tears fell harder. My brush moved faster. Red, black, gold, violent strokes that screamed on canvas. My grief. My rage. My freedom.
By the time Logan returned after midnight, reeking of expensive bourbon and stale boardroom air, he paused outside my room, staring at the open door.
His eyes fell on me – barefoot, hair messy, face streaked with tears and paint. My brush still moved furiously across the canvas.
He said nothing. Just stood there, silent, watching me with unreadable eyes.
But for once, I didn't care what he thought. I didn't care what he wanted or needed or felt.
Because tonight, I realised something powerful.
I was done begging for his love.
From today onwards, I would only live for myself – however many days or months I had left.
And that… that was the most beautiful thing I had ever painted.