~Odessa's POV~
"Mrs. Gracia, the scans show metastatic cancer. It has spread from its original site to multiple organs. Given the aggressiveness and the extent of the tumors, curative treatment is no longer an option. I wish I had better news."
The doctor's words were a cold, sharp blade twisting in my gut. My world, once a vibrant landscape of future plans and ambitions, was now a barren wasteland. I clung to my purse, my knuckles white with the strain. The simple, expensive leather felt like a lifeline, the only thing grounding me as I struggled to find my voice.
"How…how long do I have?" My voice trembled, a frail whisper against the weight of the diagnosis.
"Without aggressive treatment, likely three months, possibly less. With palliative care, we can focus on keeping you comfortable." The doctor's voice was gentle, but the finality in his tone was unmistakable. It felt like a death sentence delivered with a hint of kindness.
I shut the door of the doctor's office, the click of the latch echoing in the empty hallway. My hand, shaking slightly, clutched the test reports as if they might disintegrate into dust. Leaning against a piece of mahogany trim, I closed my eyes, a single tear escaping to trace a path down my cheek. The hospital air was thick with the sterile, acrid smell of antiseptics and drugs, a scent that now seemed to symbolize my own decaying body. I could hear a symphony of human despair: hushed prayers from waiting rooms, the wrenching sobs of families who had just lost a loved one, and the quiet sighs of relief from those who had been granted another chance. My ears, however, were only tuned to the doctor's words.
Three months? I was already as good as dead. I'd heard the morbid assumptions that depression could kill faster than the disease itself, and in this moment, watching my entire future crumble into nothingness felt like a far more immediate end than the cancer ever could be.
Dying at twenty-six was never a part of my carefully constructed plan. Even worse, I didn't have any children by my side to bid me farewell, no little hands to hold. Moments later, I was in my car, another sigh escaping my lips as I started the engine. This was the third clinic I had visited, each one a desperate, failing search for a different, hopeful answer. Yet, each time, the conclusion was the same. My grandmother had died of metastatic lung cancer, a legacy of suffering passed down through my genes, a cruel inheritance that had now come to collect its due.
At least I died with an inheritance, I thought bitterly, a morbid joke. An inbuilt one, other than the one I had worked day and night for. As I drove past the headquarters of Montgomery Athlete Management (MAM), a towering monolith of glass and steel, I knew it was completely out of my reach. My grandfather had left me a strict clause in his will: "Get pregnant with an heir and the agency is yours."
It had been five years since my marriage to Damien. Five years of us trying repeatedly, with hope and with desperation, only for each attempt to end with the blank, mocking result of a pregnancy test. We were never going to be parents. Fate was just cruel that way.
When the traffic light turned red, I picked up my phone, my fingers skimming through my contact list before stopping at a single name: Husband. My fingers hesitated for a minute, a brief pause of indecision, but I typed the message regardless.
[Come home early. I have something to tell you.]
I shoved my phone onto the passenger seat, the screen going dark as I turned the car's engine back on and drove toward our penthouse.
Handing the keys to the driver to park the Cabriolet in the garage, I checked my phone. Damien had texted back.
[Sure babe, are you okay?]
No. I'm not okay. The thought screamed in my head. I'm actually dying.
I took off my sunglasses, the world around me seeming to lose a little more of its color as I typed a hollow response. [Yeah, I am.]
He called me shortly after, and we chatted about how his practice was going, his voice a soothing balm on my frayed nerves. I listened as I reached the door of our home, his calm presence a comforting sound. Maybe I had one good thing going for me before I left this world. Even without a child, I could at least brag about having an amazing husband.
The house was empty as usual. I didn't fancy having maids stay with us, preferring our privacy. Most times, if I wasn't working, I had company from my cousin, Sarah. She was the daughter of Damien's coach for the Edinburgh Reapers, our top team under MAM. We usually chatted over random things, shopped together, and attended Damien's games. I'm not the type to keep friends, but she had proven herself to be an ally of sorts, a constant presence I had come to rely on.
I dropped the test results on the sleek coffee table, using my keys as a paperweight to keep them from blowing away. I settled for a protein shake and heated some food in the microwave. While I ate, I watched Casablanca on my projector, the romantic black-and-white classic momentarily allowing me to forget about my worries until I drifted off to sleep.
Damien woke me with a kiss. It started as a gentle peck but developed into something slow and deep. My eyes were still closed, but I parted my lips to let his tongue slide into my mouth, a desperate, final kiss as if this was the last time I'd ever get to feel him again. He pulled away with a laugh, and my eyes fluttered open to see his incredibly handsome face smiling down at me. I thought of how I'd fall in love with him over and over again without a single worry. But now, death was already waiting in the corner, a dark shadow threatening to end my forever with my husband.
"Good evening, love," he grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"It's evening already?" I yawned as he sat down beside me. I could see how dark it was outside from the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights twinkling below.
He changed the CD to another movie, one of my favorites, Felix The Cat. Just then, his gaze fell on the test results on the table. He grabbed them, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What's this?" he asked.
My stomach plummeted as his hands began to tremble while he read the report. His eyes grew glossy with each line, each medical term a fresh stab. "No…this can't be…"
"It is. I've checked it multiple times." I sighed, holding back the tears that were threatening to spill. "It's hopeless, Damien. I'm going to die in three months."
"I thought it was just pneumonia again. Your cough…the doctor said it was asthma and we got that treated, didn't we? You were just fine." His voice was a cracked whisper, a plea for this to not be real.
I straddled him slowly, cupping his face in my hands, holding him delicately as he held me with trembling hands. Like him, I hadn't believed it at first. I had gotten sick with acute pneumonia the previous month, and when I coughed up blood two weeks ago, I assumed it was just the aftershocks of a bad illness. But now, here I was, crying on my husband's shoulder as he rubbed my hair, shedding quiet tears of his own.
We didn't deserve this. We had been through so much together. When we were dating eight years ago, Damien had been in a car accident. It took him six months to wake up from a coma, six dreaded months of my life spent in a hospital waiting room. Life had always been difficult for us, but now it seemed to hate us with a singular, cruel intensity.
"It's okay, you're going to be okay," he whispered, a desperate lie. "I love you so much, Odessa. I love you so fucking much."
****
I fell asleep in his arms later. I could feel him standing up, his hands underneath my hips, as he took me upstairs. I'm a heavy sleeper, the kind that can sleep all the way to the next morning, something he usually joked about.
My eyes opened up in a confined, enclosed space. My eyes burned, and my chest felt tight like it was being squeezed and stabbed. "Help me!" I screamed, but the air caught in my throat, clogging my chest even further as I coughed up a bloody froth. I was going to die.
God, I was going to die. I kept banging at the door, coughing, pleading for just another chance, just another moment, until I fell to the ground. When the door burst open, I was carried away by a muscular figure just as a piercing sound made it difficult to hear.
I jolted up into reality. It was just a nightmare. A memory, really.
"The chlorine exposure didn't cause your cancer directly, but the lifelong damage it left was a perfect place for cancerous growth in addition to genetics." The doctor's words replayed in my head as I got up and took off my sweater vest.
It had been six years since that accident. I had accidentally locked myself in a cinema's bathroom, unaware that someone had leaked chlorine and radon gases shortly after. We still couldn't find the culprit, and Damien had saved me three hours later after a frantic search. There was no trace, no clue, and my mother had shut down the cinema in a rage. My mother. It would kill her to find out about this, and I couldn't bring myself to tell her just yet, but sooner or later, I knew she would find out.
I sighed, turning to the other side of the bed. Damien wasn't there. I checked the clock. 12 a.m. Tying my hair in a messy bun, I headed downstairs to grab a drink.
My legs froze when I heard a breathy moan from a female. "Keep it quiet, darling," Damien's voice followed shortly after with a simultaneous grunt. The sound of bodies pounding in a sensual rhythm hit me. I decided not to be paranoid. Maybe he was watching an adult film.
"Faster, please." It was Sarah. It was bloody Sarah. My benefit of doubt fizzled out entirely when I stepped into the living room to see my husband pleasuring Sarah on the very same couch he had comforted me on just hours ago.