Never Meant to Be

'My name is Lily Preston, and the day before Valentine's Day is my wedding anniversary.'

Like clockwork, Caleb Spencer's message came in right at midnight. It always did.

This year, it was a payment confirmation.

Seven figures. He bought my senior thesis project… and gave it to another woman.

Blood dripped from my nose onto the phone screen, blooming slowly. I turned off the screen, grabbed a tissue to stop the bleeding, and resumed cleaning the apartment.

[Got nothing to say?]

His messages kept coming. Clearly, he wasn't ready to let this go.

I sighed and typed back, [Don't get anyone pregnant.]

Seconds after I hit send, the phone rang.

His low laugh came through the receiver, cold and mocking. It was as if I were the one who cheated.

"Lily, you've got thirty minutes. Bring a box of condoms to Room 8301 at Capitol Tower."

My nails dug into my palm. I bit down hard on my lip until I tasted blood.

"Why me?"

He scoffed. "Didn't you just say not to get anyone pregnant? Be a good wife, Mrs. Spencer."

He spat out the last two words like they disgusted him.

I hung up and pressed my fingers to my temples. I felt exhausted. I popped a pill into my mouth without checking the label and swallowed it dry. Then, I grabbed my coat and headed out.

The city streets were eerily quiet at that hour.

At the 24-hour pharmacy, the sleepy pharmacist looked at the box I handed over and said gently, "Sweetheart, if a man sends you out in the middle of the night to buy these, he's not worth your time."

I nodded slightly. "He really isn't."

But what I didn't say was that I didn't have much time left anyway.

I had a rare, genetic disease. It was incurable, and most who had it didn't live past 30.