Chapter 7: Elena–My Wife.

~Bianca's POV~

I stood frozen.

Nathan's arms wrapped around my rain-soaked body like we were in some twisted movie. His embrace was warm, desperate—and completely out of character.

Pulling back just enough to study me, his hands gripped my shoulders, brown eyes scanning for wounds.

"Are you hurt? What happened?" His voice cracked. "You walked in the rain? You could've caught a cold."

I blinked up at him, still dripping. Still stunned. What the hell?

This wasn't the man who ignored my tears. The man who didn't flinch when I bled. He hadn't even held me when my father died.

Now he was wrapping a towel around my shoulders, voice low and gentle. "The maids are off tonight, but I could make you tea. Something hot. Ginger, maybe."

Tea? Nathan? The man who once said tea was for the weak?

My confusion must've shown.

"I'm fine," I said, stepping back. "You don't have to—really."

He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, patting the space beside him. "I've been thinking… about this morning."

My pulse skipped at that but I stayed silent, letting him talk.

"I know things have been hard. Since your dad passed…" He trailed off, eyes on the floor. "You blame me, don't you? You think if you hadn't been taking care of me, you would've been there. That you could've said goodbye."

His voice broke. And then, tears. Real ones. Or convincing fakes.

"I never meant for things to be like this," he whispered. "I know I can be… difficult. And you've been so distant. So angry. I thought maybe it's because you blame me."

I stared at him.

This wasn't remorse. It was a performance. Control dressed up as vulnerability.

But I didn't call him out.

No. Let him think it was working.

Sitting down beside him, I placed a hand on his knee. "It's not your fault," I murmured. "I've just been lonely. The nightmares about Dad... they won't stop. I feel... empty."

Tears pricked my eyes and I forced a few to fall.

"And I'm sorry," I added softly, "for how I treated mom this morning."

He took my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "It's okay. I know that wasn't really you. Mom's already forgiven you. We love you, Bianca. I'm here for you. Always."

Inside, I was screaming.

Then his tone shifted. "Have you taken your meds today?"

Ahh, there it was. The real reason for this little performance, ladies and gentlemen.

I tensed as he stood and moved to the drawer. My stomach twisted into knots. The capsules were gone. I'd flushed them this morning.

His body stilled when he saw the drawer empty. His gaze darted to the trash bin, landing on the empty bottle.

Picking it up slowly, he turned toward me. "Why is this in the trash?" His voice had hardened. "It's empty. Didn't we just refill it yesterday?"

My mind raced.

"I-I took them," I lied quickly. "All of them. The pain was bad, and… I didn't think. I just took them."

Shock flickered across his face, quickly replaced by something darker. Something pleased.

Of course he was pleased. An overdose would speed things up.

Still, he rushed toward me, dropping to his knees in front of me, cupping my face with false panic. "Bianca… what were you thinking? That's dangerous. You should've come to me."

Pulling me into another hug, he stroked my hair like I was some fragile thing. "Promise me. Promise you won't do that again."

"I promise," I whispered, the words feeling like a lie as they left my mouth.

He pulled away, a satisfied smile spreading across his face. "Good. I'll have another refill sent in the morning."

Then his phone buzzed.

He glanced down, still crouched in front of me, and I saw it too.

Elena – My Wife.

A bitter laugh nearly slipped out, but I swallowed it.

He married me, yet she still held the title. What did that make me?

His property? His cover?

He looked up, but I had already wiped the smirk off my face.

"It's work," he said, slipping the phone into his pocket. "I have to take this."

"Of course," I murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

He kissed my forehead, then walked out.

As soon as the door clicked shut, I rushed over and locked it. My hands were shaking—not from fear, but from fury.

He thought he still had me wrapped around his finger.

He didn't know she was gone. The girl who trusted him, who loved him foolishly.

That Bianca was dead.

And this new version of me? She was just getting started.

*****

The next morning, I pushed open the doors to Gracefield Medical Center, the sterile scent hitting me like a wall of memories.

I couldn't remember the last time I came here.

This hospital—Dr. Emily's hospital—used to be my sanctuary. My father's trusted place. Until I married Nathan and everything shifted. They pulled me away, told me they had better doctors, imported drugs, and superior treatments.

And I foolishly believed them.

The marble floors gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights as I made my way to reception. Behind the desk sat a familiar face—Gabby, Dr. Emily's assistant.

She gasped. "Bianca? Oh my God."

"Hey, Gabby."

She rounded the desk and hugged me tightly. "It's been so long. You look… wow. You've really grown."

"Yeah." I smiled faintly. "Time flies."

"Dr. Emily's been expecting you. You can go right in."

I thanked her and walked the familiar hallway to the office at the end.

It looked just the same—soft blues and whites, that same faint scent of lavender in the air. Calm. Clean. Unchanged.

Dr. Emily looked up from her desk the moment I entered. Her brown eyes widened—then softened.

"Bianca," she said, rising to her feet.

She pulled me into a hug. "Look at you," she whispered, stepping back to take me in. "You've grown into such a beautiful young woman."

I smiled, truly this time. "You haven't changed a bit."

We sat, and I studied her—her chestnut hair pulled back neatly, the faintest trace of gray at her temples. She really hadn't changed, just a little older, but still as beautiful as I remembered.

"I was surprised to get your call yesterday," She folded her hands on the desk. "But I'm glad you reached out."

"I needed to talk to you," I said. "But… you mentioned you had something to tell me as well?"

She hesitated for a moment.

"You first," she offered softly.

I shook my head. "No. Please, you go."

We sat in silence for a beat as she studied my face, her eyes searching, as if uncertain I was ready. Finally, she let out a long, steady breath.

"Bianca…" Her voice was soft but resolute. "You're not really sick."

I blinked, trying to process her words.

She looked at me squarely. "You don't have cancer."