THE NINETY-DAY RECKONING

That was what the cold, clinical document from Memorial Health had stated three weeks ago. But the cruelest part wasn't the supposed disease rotting me from the inside out; it was how quickly the man I loved shed his human skin the moment he thought I was expiring.

The moment we returned to our sprawling modern estate in Bel Air, Richard—the man I had lifted out of middle-management obscurity and molded into a billionaire CEO using my family’s old-money wealth and political connections—coldly banished me to a cramped, slate-gray guest room downstairs.

“Your medical monitors are far too noisy, Victoria,” Richard had said, staring at his tablet without an ounce of warmth in his eyes. “And frankly, I need the master suite to conduct high-level international calls. The company needs strong leadership now more than ever.”

I had been too weak, too shell-shocked by the diagnosis to fight back. I spent twelve days in that dark room, listening to the muffled sounds of the estate, feeling my life slip away like sand through cold fingers.

On day twelve, I agonizingly dragged my frail body out of bed and into a wheelchair to get a simple glass of water from the main kitchen.

As I rounded the marble hallway corner, I froze.

Sitting on the plush Italian leather sofa near the glass infinity pool, wearing my silk robe, was a young, undeniably pregnant woman. She was barely twenty-five, with pristine blonde hair and a condescending pout.

Richard—shirtless, smiling with a tenderness he hadn't shown me in a decade—was gently feeding her a chocolate-dipped strawberry.

“I was thinking, Richard,” the girl whined, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “After she passes, we really need to gut the main living room. It’s so... old money. It’s depressing. We need something fresher, something brighter for the baby. Maybe a minimalist, white-marble aesthetic with floor-to-ceiling gold accents.”

“Whatever you want, my love,” Richard murmured, kissing her shoulder. “Her trust fund dissolves directly into my personal accounts upon her death. We can tear the whole mansion down to the studs if it makes you happy.”

My trembling hand slipped off the armrest, striking the wheelchair's metal frame with a loud, metallic clack.

Richard snapped his head toward me, his expression instantly hardening into a flat, icy void.

“Richard...” I rasped, my throat raw. “Who... who is this?”

“Victoria, please,” Richard sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose as if I were a nuisance. “This is Sienna. She is carrying my heir. And frankly, Sienna is highly sensitive to depressing energy right now. The stress isn't good for my son. Can you take your water and roll back to your room? You're ruining our morning.”

Sienna smirked behind her crystal juice glass, resting her hand ostentatiously over her round belly.

I sat paralyzed, my chest burning with a pain far worse than any tumor. But then, as I stared at the man I had built from nothing, something remarkable happened. The despair evaporated. The weeping, helpless wife died right there in that wheelchair, and the cold, calculating heiress awakened.

I didn't utter another word. I silently turned my wheelchair around and rolled back into my dark room.

Just as the door clicked shut, my personal phone vibrated on the bedside table.