Chapter 1 – Diagnosis of Fate

“Miss Emerie, you understand what this means, don’t you?”

The healer’s voice was gentle, but Emerie barely heard it over the buzzing in her ears.

“No cure?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

The healer gave a sympathetic smile. “We can manage your pain. Six months, if we begin treatment immediately.”

Emerie nodded slowly, her fingers tightening around the paper cup. “Thank you.”

“I’m so sorry.”

She stood. “I’ll settle the bill.”

“No need today,” the healer said. “You should rest. Please—tell someone close to you.”

Emerie smiled politely. “Of course.” She walked out before the lies tasted bitter in her mouth.

The corridor outside felt impossibly long. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. Her boots echoed on the tile. And then—

“Emerie?”

She froze. That voice. She turned. Allan stood just ten feet away, one arm wrapped protectively around Jolene.

Jolene beamed. “What a surprise! Were you here for a check-up too?”

Emerie swallowed. “Just... routine tests.”

“You look pale,” Allan said.

She forced a smile. “Flu season.”

Jolene’s hand dropped to her belly. “Well, at least you’re here. We’re getting the sonogram today. Twelve weeks!”

“Congratulations,” Emerie said, her voice even.

Allan’s smile was faint. “Thanks.”

“I’ll let you two go. Don’t want to keep the baby waiting.”

“You sure?” Jolene tilted her head. “You could come see the image. It’s just a blob right now, but it’s our blob.”

Emerie’s stomach clenched. “Maybe another time.”

They disappeared into the obstetrics wing, pastel walls adorned with painted rabbits and bouncing foxes. Emerie stood still until the door clicked shut.

Then she pulled the diagnosis scroll from her pocket and pressed it to her chest.

No one would see her cry. Not today.

---

Back outside, snow drifted down in slow spirals. The cold soothed her flushed cheeks. She walked blindly, her boots crunching through slush, her mind spiraling faster than the snowflakes.

Allan had smiled at Jolene like that once—no, maybe he always had. Maybe he never stopped.

Her fingers brushed her pocket again. The scroll crackled. Six months.

She reached the gates of the pack’s central square and turned toward the woods, but a voice called from behind.

“Emerie, wait.”

She turned slowly. Allan jogged to catch up, brushing snow from his shoulders. “You didn’t say where you’re staying. You’ve looked tired lately. If you’re sick—”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“You’re not my husband today, are you? You’re Jolene’s partner now.”

He blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” she murmured. “I’m just tired.”

“You’ve been off since the New Year. Is it because of the council vote?”

Emerie laughed softly. “The council? Allan, no.”

His brows furrowed. “Then what is it? You’re hiding something.”

She stared up at him. “Would it change anything if I was?”

“Maybe,” he said. “I don’t like guessing. You used to trust me.”

“Did I?” she whispered, more to herself than him.

Before he could respond, a nurse peeked out the obstetrics wing. “Mr. Allan, we’re ready for you!”

Jolene waved from inside.

“I have to go,” he said. “Let’s talk later, alright?”

She nodded. “Later.”

He jogged back, and the door shut behind him.

Emerie turned again, walking toward the forest, snow soaking her boots.

---

At home, silence greeted her like an old friend. She dropped her bag by the door and turned up the heat.

A blinking light on the answering crystal caught her eye. She tapped it.

“Allan here. I’ll stay with Jolene tonight. Don’t wait up.”

She tapped it off. “I won’t.”

The kitchen was too clean. She boiled water, made ginger tea, then poured it down the drain untouched.

Upstairs, she passed the door to Allan’s study, paused, then pushed it open.

Books. Ledgers. A cracked inkpot.

And a photo of their wedding. Still framed. Still dusty.

She picked it up. Her smile in that photo had been real. His had not.

A sharp ache stabbed her chest. Not the curse—this pain was older, colder.

Emerie sat in the chair he used to avoid. Her fingers found the locket from her mother, still cracked down the side.

“I’m dying,” she whispered. “And no one will care.”

The house creaked. She stood, returned the photo, and closed the study door.

---

Her phone buzzed that night. A text from Jolene.

Hope you're resting! Let’s do lunch soon ?

Emerie stared at it. Then deleted it.

She curled beneath the quilts in her room.

The one Allan had never entered.

---

“Morning, miss,” the housekeeper greeted the next day.

Emerie nodded. “No breakfast for me. I’ll be out.”

The housekeeper hesitated. “Will the Alpha be returning tonight?”

“Not tonight,” Emerie said. “Probably never.”

The woman blinked but said nothing.

---

In the forest near the east ridge, Emerie sat with her journal. She pressed the diagnosis scroll flat and began copying it word for word.

Each syllable was a death sentence.

Each stroke of ink was a burial.

“You don’t have to disappear,” she whispered. “You could tell him.”

But she knew better.

Allan would pity her. That was worse than hate.

And Jolene?

Jolene would smile through it, then throw a memorial gala and name her daughter after her.

No.

Emerie tore the page from her journal, folded it into a crane, and placed it on a pine branch.

“Fly far,” she murmured.

---

That evening, Allan returned.

Emerie was in the dining room, finishing broth.

“You’re here,” he said, surprised.

She nodded. “Didn’t feel like staying at the clinic.”

“Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Then what tests did you run yesterday?”

She met his gaze. “Why do you care?”

“I’m your husband.”

She raised a brow. “For now.”

He stared at her, searching for something. “You’re different lately. Sharper.”

“Time changes people.”

“You used to wait up for me.”

“I used to think you might come home.”

He exhaled. “You’re angry.”

“I’m dying,” she said calmly.

He froze. “What?”

She smiled. “Just a metaphor.”

But his face had gone pale.

---

When he left, she went to the washroom.

Stared at the mirror.

Blood dripped from her nose.

She caught it in a cloth, watching it bloom red like petals.

When it stopped, she washed her hands and pocketed the stained handkerchief.

Proof.

---

Back in her room, she packed a bag. One cloak. One tonic. One cracked locket.

She placed the diagnosis scroll inside.

And the divorce papers.

Tomorrow, she would slide them across his desk.

No tears. No screams.

Just her signature.

And the open road.