Prologue

Prologue

The ambulance siren wails like a dying scream through the rainy night, and my heart pounds so hard I can barely breathe. I sit squeezed beside Noah on the narrow stretcher, my hand clutching his cold fingers while the paramedics work around us. 

His face is pale, lips tinged blue, chest rising in shallow, painful gasps. Every jolt of the vehicle sends fresh terror through me.

“Please hold on,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “You’re going to be okay, Noah. I’m right here.” 

I hold his hand tightly because this is the only chance I get to hold him, when he's vulnerable and weak. When he can't push me away and glare at me with all the hate in the world. 

The ambulance doors fly open. Bright hospital lights blind me as they rush Noah inside. I stay glued to his side, answering every question the doctors throw at me because I know his medical history better than he does. 

Stress-induced cardiomyopathy, they call it. Too many all-nighters, too much pressure, and too little care for the body that carries the Frost empire on its shoulders.

I never should have gotten angry after our fight two days ago. If I hadn't, I'd have been there to remind him to take his medicine and not overwork himself too hard. 

They wheel him into a private ward. Machines beep urgently around us. I hover close, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead the way I’ve done so many quiet nights when he was too exhausted to notice. 

“You'll have to wait outside, ma'am," the doctor says. I nod and step out, but stay close to the door. 

Time passes by and before I know it, the door opens and the doctor steps out. The look on her face has me letting out a breath, I didn't realize I was holding. 

" Your husband is okay now, Mrs Frost. He’s been skipping his drugs for a while and that's why his condition worsened. Please make sure this doesn't happen again.” With a quiet nod, she heads down the corridor. 

I take a breath and head inside the ward, my heart racing with joy when I see Noah seated on the bed looking strong as usual. 

Noah…” My voice trembles with gratitude. “Thank God you’re awake.”

His gaze hardens almost instantly. The warmth I dared to hope for vanishes, replaced by the familiar cold wall I’ve been staring at for four years.

“Get out.”

The words hit like a slap. I freeze, my hand still hovering near his face. “Noah?”

“I said get out.” His voice is hoarse but sharp enough to cut through bone. “I don’t want you here.”

My heart stutters. 

Pain blooms fresh and raw in my chest, the same ache I’ve carried silently through every ignored anniversary, every missed dinner, every night I cried alone after he walked past Lila’s bedroom door without even glancing inside. I think of our daughter waiting at home with the nanny, clutching her favorite stuffed bear and asking when Daddy will come see her. I think of all the times I defended him to her, to my own family, and to myself.

Tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall in front of him. He wouldn't care anyways. 

Before I can find words, Noah raises his voice again. “Jace!”

His personal assistant appears in the doorway instantly, tablet in hand, expression carefully neutral. “Sir?”

“Make sure she doesn’t step foot back into this ward,” Noah orders, not even looking at me anymore. “No visitors except you and the doctors. Especially not her.”

Especially not her.

The words echo in my head as Jace nods without question. “Yes, Mr. Frost.”

My fingers slip from Noah’s hand. The loss of contact feels final, like the last thread of the fragile life I’ve been desperately holding together has finally snapped. I take one step back, then another, my legs unsteady beneath me. The sterile smell of antiseptic and the steady beep of machines fade behind the roar of blood in my ears.

I turn and walk toward the door, each step heavier than the last. Behind me, I hear Jace quietly closing the gap, ready to escort me out like I’m some unwanted intruder instead of the wife who has loved his with every broken piece of her heart for four painful years.

Four years of being married and he still looks at me like I'm trash beneath his shoes. 

Four years of waking up before dawn to make sure his coffee is exactly the way he likes it, four years of waiting alone in that massive, empty penthouse until the early hours, wondering if he would come home at all or if he’d stay at the office again, buried in deals and deadlines, four years of smiling softly when he snapped at me for no reason, of biting my tongue when his eyes slid past me like I was part of the furniture.

I gave him everything. My heart, my youth, my future. And I gave him our daughter.

Our three-year-old with his dark hair and my gentle eyes. She asks for “Daddy” every night before bed, even though he’s barely spoken more than ten words to her in the last three years. I rock her when she cries for him, I tell her how important and busy her father is, how much he loves her even when he doesn’t show it. I lie so she won’t feel the same emptiness I carry every single day, because that's what a mother does.

“As the door clicks shut behind me, I lean against the cold hospital wall and finally let the tears fall.

I have spent four years being invisible to the man I love, and tonight, just like every other time, he made sure I finally understand just how unwanted I truly am.

And yet… even now, a small, foolish part of me still wants to stay right here, waiting for him to need me again