She Rose from the Ashes

Late that night, Silas finally came to the hospital. He reeked of alcohol, and his white coat still carried a trace of a woman's perfume.

"Chloe, how are you feeling?"

I looked at him and asked softly, "Silas, when can I start the treatment?"

He frowned. "Wynter said your current survival rate is only 30%. It's too risky."

"What about Mr. Zerin's daughter last month?" I asked quietly. "What was her survival rate?"

Silas hesitated. "She was only in stage three. You're terminal. It's different."

"They donated 30 million to your research fund," I said, fixing my eyes on him. "Is that what makes it different?"

His face darkened. "Chloe, how can you think of me like that? I developed this drug for you."

Seeing the righteous look on his face, I suddenly laughed. "Silas, do you even remember how I got this illness in the first place?"

…

Ten years ago, there was an explosion in his lab, and I inhaled the toxic chemical fumes from running into the fire and dragging him out.

The diagnosis read: acute chemical lung injury, irreversible fibrosis in the later stage.

He had knelt by my bed and sworn, "Chloe, I'll find a way to cure you."

…

He was about to speak when his phone rang—a call from Wynter.

"Prof. Stenson, the lights in the lab went out. I'm a little scared… could you come over?" Her voice was soft, almost tearful.

Silas immediately stood up. "Don't be scared, I'll be right there."

I grabbed the corner of his coat. "Silas, I'm not done talking to you—"

"We'll talk another time. Wynter's alone, I can't leave her like that." He pulled his coat free and walked out without looking back.

After he left, I asked the nurse to check the condition of that rich tycoon's daughter. As expected, she had been given Silas' new drug. In three months, her condition had stabilized, and she was already living a normal life.

Meanwhile, I had been issued my third critical condition notice.

…

The next day, I forced my failing body to sneak into Silas' lab. Standing outside the door, I heard Wynter's voice.

"Prof. Stenson, let's give this new batch to Mr. Jemison's daughter. He's willing to invest another 50 million."

There was a brief silence inside before Silas spoke, his tone gentle—one I hadn't heard in years. "Wynter, I know you're thinking of what's best for the lab, but—"

"But what?" she interrupted, sounding aggrieved. "Prof. Stenson, I know I shouldn't say this, but… is Chloe really that sick? Every time she's in critical condition, it's right when you're the busiest. Last time, when you were about to present at the international conference, she was admitted to the ICU. Now, just as we're celebrating the success of the new drug, she's critical again. Isn't that a little too convenient?"

She sighed softly. "Professor, you've already sacrificed so much for her. Mr. Jemison's investment will determine the project's future. You can't keep letting her… hold you back."

Silas was silent for a long time. I held my breath, waiting for his answer.

"You're right," he finally said. "Maybe I've been too soft on her. Fine—let's do as you said. Give this batch to Ms. Jemison." His voice turned cold. "After all, Chloe's condition probably isn't as dire as she makes it out to be."

So all those times I hovered between life and death—in his eyes, it was all pretend.

I pushed open the door, shattering the cozy scene inside. Wynter startled and instinctively leaned toward Silas, who reflexively turned, shielding her with half his body.

Silas' expression faltered. "Chloe? What are you doing here? In your condition, you shouldn't be wandering around like this."