Shattered Reflections.

Evangeline POV

I have two pieces of news for myself today, one good, one devastating.

The good news: I’ve been promoted to the position of Managing Director after three grueling years of breaking my back for a company that barely knew my name when I started.

The bad news: according to my doctor, my life force is draining faster than it should. The cancer, primary cardiac angiosarcoma, they call it—has burrowed so deep into my heart that they are giving me only about a year to live, if I’m lucky.

I stared at my phone screen as if by glaring hard enough, I could somehow will the email to disappear or change into something else. My fingers trembled slightly around the device, the hospital's sterile scent filling my nostrils. The cheerful chime that had accompanied the promotion email a few minutes ago still rang in my ears, cruelly mocking me.

"Mrs. Hart?"

I blinked and turned my head slowly toward the door, where Dr. Lawson, my cardiologist, stood, holding a clipboard against his chest. His expression was composed but weighed down with a sadness that told me everything before he even opened his mouth.

"Can you come in, please?"

I swallowed the thick lump lodged in my throat and pushed myself off the cold bench. My legs felt heavy, like they weren't entirely mine, as I followed him into his office. The soft thud of the door closing behind me sounded like a judge’s gavel.

He gestured gently toward the chair in front of his desk. I sat down, still clutching my phone in my hand like a life raft.

He lowered himself into his chair with a small sigh, setting the clipboard on the desk. For a moment, he just looked at me, his mouth pressed into a tight line.

"Give me the details in full now right?" I asked, my voice coming out more fragile than I intended.

He nodded, folding his hands over the clipboard. "I will. Evangeline, I’m going to be very honest with you because I believe you deserve nothing less."

I braced myself, my heart beating painfully against my ribs.

"The biopsy confirmed our suspicions. It’s a rare form of heart cancer called primary cardiac angiosarcoma. Aggressive. Difficult to treat."

The air around me seemed to thin out. I had read about it online, back when they first found the abnormality after my son's birth. But hearing it spoken aloud, hearing it confirmed by a professional, was a different beast entirely.

I wet my dry lips. "Is there... any hope for me then?"

His shoulders sagged slightly. "We can try chemotherapy to slow it down. Maybe radiation. Palliative surgeries, if necessary, to ease the symptoms. But..." He hesitated, his voice faltering. "Based on the spread, the prognosis is grim. Best case scenario... a year. Maybe less if the tumor affects the heart's electrical system further."

A year.

I stared at him, feeling as if the floor had fallen out from under me.

How could it be that simple? That final?

I pressed my trembling hands together. "It... it started after I had Noah, right? That’s what you said before?"

He nodded. "Yes. In very rare cases, the trauma of childbirth can reveal underlying conditions. In your case, we believe the strain on your heart triggered rapid tumor growth."

My stomach twisted.

I had given life—and somehow in the process, planted the seeds of my own death.

"I’m so sorry, Evangeline," he added quietly. "I wish I had better news."

I laughed softly, bitterly. "Funny. I just got promoted today."

He blinked, clearly unsure how to respond.

I shook my head and stood up, slipping my phone into my purse with shaking fingers. "Thank you, Doctor. For telling me the truth."

"Please," he said urgently, standing as well. "If you need support—counselors, support groups, anything—"

"I’ll think about it," I lied, my voice already hollow.

I left the office immediately, moving on autopilot, my body mechanically weaving through the cold, gray corridors of the hospital.

When I reached my car, I sat there for a long time, my hands gripping the steering wheel, staring blankly through the windshield as life continued around me. Cars passed by. Nurses laughed at the curb. A man was arguing with a parking attendant.

Everything was normal. Everything was moving.

Except me.

I wanted—needed—to share the news with someone. To cry. To scream.

But when my mind flickered to Nathan, my husband, the idea froze and withered inside me.

I thought back to the last time I had dared tell him about a promotion—two years ago, when I was made Senior Manager. I remembered his scowl, the way his jaw had tightened, the coldness in his eyes as he threw the words at me:

"Must be nice to sleep your way to the top."

"Not everyone can be that lucky, Eva."

I had stood there, stunned, the pride in my chest crumbling into shame and guilt. After that, I had stopped telling him about work. Stopped sharing my successes. It hurt less that way.

A bitter smile curved my lips as I sat in the driver’s seat. Nathan still didn’t have a job. Not for lack of opportunities because I had pulled strings, lined up interviews, sent resumes on his behalf. But every time, he found a reason to turn them down.

"A man shouldn’t work under his wife."

"I’m not taking scraps as job."

"It’s humiliating."

His pride had built a wall between us that only grew higher and thicker with time. Meanwhile, I had shouldered everything—rent, groceries, bills, Noah’s nanny—without complaint, because what else could I do? Let my family starve?

And yet, even as I worked double shifts, even as my bones ached from exhaustion, the distance between us grew wider. Resentment crept in like mold, silent but deadly.

I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. 7:30 PM.

Noah.

A pang of guilt stabbed through me.

Tomorrow was his seventh birthday.

I hadn't even bought him a present yet.

Some mother I was.

I drove to the nearest convenience store and picked up a few bars of his favorite chocolates—the ones with caramel centers he adored. I stood in the aisle far longer than necessary, clutching the chocolates to my chest like they could somehow fix everything. Like they could buy me more time.

By the time I pulled up to our apartment building, it was past 9:00 PM. The lights in Noah’s bedroom window were already off.

I trudged up the stairs, my legs feeling heavier with each step. My keys fumbled at the lock before the door finally swung open.

The house was quiet except for the low hum of the television from the living room. I kicked off my heels, feeling every ache and throb in my body, and tiptoed toward Noah’s room.

I pushed the door open gently.

There he was—my little boy, sprawled out across his bed, his blanket twisted around his tiny legs, breathing softly in the dim light of his nightlight. My heart squeezed painfully.

"I’m sorry, baby," I whispered, kneeling beside him.

I set the bag of chocolates and a small wrapped box on his nightstand—an action figure he had mentioned weeks ago but I barely had time to order—and brushed his soft curls back from his forehead.

"I’m going to make tomorrow special for you," I promised him, even though deep down, fear gnawed at my heart.

Would I even be here for his eighth birthday?

I kissed his forehead gently and stood up, pulling his blanket back over his small body.

As I closed the door quietly behind me, I heard footsteps creaking down the hallway.

I turned, expecting to see Nathan coming from the bedroom.

But no—he was stepping out of the nanny’s room, his hair tousled, his shirt half-buttoned, looking… disheveled.

My heart stuttered.

"What were you doing in there?" I asked, keeping my voice even.

He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh—Sophia couldn’t get the shower to work. Asked for help resetting the bathwash."

I stared at him, searching his face. There was something off—something shifty in the way he wouldn't meet my eyes.

Still, I nodded slowly. "Right."

A strange, bitter taste filled my mouth, but I said nothing else.

Nathan crossed the few steps toward me and, without warning, scooped me into his arms.

I let out a small yelp. "Nathan!"

He laughed—a full, deep laugh I hadn’t heard in months—as he carried me down the hall toward our bedroom.

"I missed you," he murmured against my ear, dropping me on the bed.

For a moment, I just lay there, stunned. He hovered over me, brushing my hair back from my face with surprising tenderness. His eyes, once filled with resentment, now softened, and for a flickering moment, I could pretend we were the couple we once were.

Before life got complicated. Before pride and fear built walls between us.

"I miss this," he said huskily, his hand skimming down my side.

And just like that, he pulled my clothes off piece by piece, pressing kisses to every patch of skin he uncovered.

I surrendered to him because it was easier than fighting.

Easier than thinking. Easier than feeling. For tonight, at least, I could pretend the email didn’t exist.

I could pretend my heart wasn’t a ticking time bomb. I could pretend I didn't have a year to live.

I could pretend everything was okay and Tomorrow could wait.