The hospital lights were too bright.
They made everything look sterile, hollow, unreal. I sat in the chemotherapy suite, wrapped in a thin hospital blanket, staring blankly at the IV drip as cold liquid seeped into my veins.
My stomach twisted with nausea. My mouth tasted metallic. My bones ached so deeply it felt like they were breaking apart cell by cell.
But the worst pain wasn't physical.
It was knowing that the seat beside me was empty. Again.
Around me, other patients were accompanied by friends, husbands, wives, daughters holding their hands, rubbing their backs, whispering soft encouragements. But I sat alone, surrounded by silent strangers fighting the same quiet battle.
My phone buzzed in my lap.
I picked it up, hoping – just for a moment – that it was Logan.
It wasn't.
Paige: Thinking of you today, sunshine. You got this. 💛
Tears welled in my eyes. I typed back shakily:
Me: Thank you. I love you.
I put the phone aside and closed my eyes, focusing on my breathing as the chemo burned through me like ice-cold fire.
---
Hours later, I stumbled out of the hospital, my body trembling with weakness. The sun was setting, painting the city in hues of purple and gold. I inhaled shakily, feeling dizziness cloud my mind.
I looked around for the driver.
No one.
My vision blurred with tears as I hailed a cab and climbed in, sinking into the seat with exhaustion.
"Where to, miss?" the driver asked kindly.
"Carter Residences, Fifth Avenue," I whispered.
He nodded and pulled into traffic.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, watching the city blur past. Billboards glowed with beautiful models and luxury brands. People rushed along sidewalks, laughing into their phones, shopping bags swinging from their arms. Life moving on, unbothered by the girl dying in the backseat of a yellow cab.
---
When I reached the penthouse, I paid the driver with trembling fingers and stumbled into the marble lobby. The doorman rushed to help me, but I shook my head stubbornly. I would not be pitied.
I rode the private elevator up to the top floor, leaning against the mirrored walls as nausea rolled through me again. The doors slid open to the penthouse foyer.
Logan stood there, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. His phone was pressed to his ear as he paced across the living room, sharp eyes flicking to me the moment I stepped out.
I ignored him, moving slowly towards my room. My vision swam, and the floor seemed to tilt under my feet.
"Madison."
I kept walking.
"Madison."
His voice was sharper this time. I stopped, swaying slightly.
He ended his call abruptly and walked over, his eyes narrowing as they scanned my trembling frame. "You look like death."
I let out a bitter laugh, tasting blood in my mouth. "Thanks. That's the goal, isn't it?"
His jaw tightened. "What the hell does that mean?"
"It means," I whispered, forcing my eyes to meet his, "that your wife is dying, Logan. And you don't even care enough to pick her up from chemotherapy."
For a fleeting second, something flickered in his eyes. Guilt? Regret? I couldn't tell. But it vanished as quickly as it came.
"I was in a board meeting," he said curtly. "You knew that."
I shook my head, tears blurring my vision. "There will always be a meeting. There will always be something more important than me."
I tried to walk past him, but my knees buckled. The world spun, blackness curling at the edges of my vision.
Strong arms caught me before I hit the floor.
For a moment, I felt his warmth surround me. His clean, sharp cologne filled my senses as he held me against his chest. I felt his heart pounding hard under my cheek.
"Madison." His voice was low, rough, almost panicked. "Madison, look at me."
I forced my heavy eyelids open. His face hovered above mine, tense with something I had never seen before.
Fear.
"Don't…" I whispered, my lips trembling. "Don't act like you care."
His jaw clenched. "Stop talking."
He lifted me effortlessly in his arms and carried me down the hallway. I felt his grip tighten around me as he kicked open my bedroom door and laid me gently on the bed.
My body felt like lead, my head throbbing with pain. I turned away from him, tears slipping down my cheeks into the pillow.
"Have you eaten today?" he demanded, his voice taut.
I didn't reply.
"Madison."
"Go away, Logan," I whispered brokenly. "Please."
Silence filled the room. For a moment, I thought he had left. But then I felt the bed dip beside me.
"I'll have Maria bring you soup," he said stiffly. "And… water. You need fluids."
I laughed softly, bitterly, my shoulders shaking with silent sobs. "Why are you pretending now?"
He didn't answer.
I turned my head slightly, forcing my blurred gaze to focus on his face. "You don't love me, Logan. You never did. Stop trying to play the husband now that I'm dying. It's pathetic."
His eyes darkened. "Don't say that."
"Why not?" I choked out. "It's the truth."
His hand twitched slightly on the bedsheet, as if he wanted to reach for me but stopped himself.
"Rest," he said gruffly, standing up. "I'll send Maria in."
He turned and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.
I curled into a ball, tears soaking my pillow as silent sobs wracked my frail body.
---
Outside my door, Logan stood with his hand pressed against the wood, his chest heaving. He closed his eyes tightly, guilt burning a hole through his ribcage.
He had seen many dying patients in his life. Colleagues' wives. Old business partners. Even his grandmother. But never like this.
Never her.
Why did it feel like his chest was caving in when she said she was dying?
Why did it feel like fear?
Why did it feel… like grief?