The 100-Day Goodbye

The hospital hallway smelled of floor wax and faded hopes. It was a scent Evelyn Hayes had grown to loathe over the last three weeks of tests and "just-in-case" scans. Now, as she sat in the hard plastic chair outside Dr. Aris’s office, the air felt even thinner.

"Evelyn? The doctor will see you now," the nurse said, her voice soft in a way that usually preceded bad news.

Evelyn stood up, smoothing her beige skirt. She walked in, her heels clicking against the linoleum. Dr. Aris didn't look up immediately. He was staring at a set of black-and-white films pinned to a lightboard.

"Sit down, Evelyn," he said, finally turning around. He didn't offer a smile. "I’ll get straight to it. The mass in your lungs isn't responding. It’s aggressive. More aggressive than we initially thought."

Evelyn felt a strange numbness creep from her fingertips up to her elbows. "How long?"

"Three months. Maybe four, if we manage the symptoms well," Dr. Aris replied. He folded his hands on the desk. "I’m sorry. We can start palliative care immediately to keep you comfortable."

"Comfortable," Evelyn repeated. The word felt heavy and absurd. "So, about a hundred days?"

"Roughly," the doctor sighed. "Do you have someone I can call? Your husband?"

Evelyn thought of Arthur. She thought of his cold silences, his late nights, and the way he looked at her as if she were a piece of furniture he had inherited but never wanted.

"No," she said, standing up. "I can handle it."

The Garrison estate was a monument to glass and steel. It was beautiful, expensive, and entirely without warmth. When Evelyn stepped into the foyer, she heard the muffled sound of a suitcase zipping closed upstairs.

She climbed the stairs slowly, her breath hitching slightly. She found Arthur in the master bedroom. He was throwing silk shirts into a designer duffel bag. He looked the way he always did—perfect. His jaw was tight, his dark hair neatly combed, and his presence commanding enough to shrink the room.

"You’re home late," Arthur said without looking at her.

"I was at the hospital," Evelyn replied, leaning against the doorframe.

Arthur paused, a black tie in his hand. He let out a short, dry breath. "Again? I told you to stop with the hypochondria, Evelyn. If you’re looking for attention, this isn't the way to get it."

"I'm not looking for attention, Arthur."

"Good. Because I don't have time for it." He zipped the bag shut and checked his watch. "I’m heading to Milan. The merger is in its final stages. I’ll be back in two weeks."

Evelyn knew about Milan. She also knew that his "assistant," Sarah, had booked a room for two at a boutique hotel on the coast.

"Don't go," she said.

Arthur finally looked at her. His eyes were like flint. "Excuse me?"

"I want you to stay. I want us to spend time together."

Arthur laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. "Is this a joke? We haven't spent a deliberate hour together in three years, Evelyn. Why would I start now? I have a multi-billion dollar company to run."

Evelyn walked over to the vanity and picked up a piece of paper she had typed out earlier that afternoon. She held it out to him.

Arthur took it, his eyes scanning the lines with practiced speed. His expression shifted from annoyance to genuine confusion, then to deep suspicion.

"A contract?" he asked, waving the paper. "One hundred days of... 'being a real husband'? What is this, some kind of sick game?"

"It’s a deal," Evelyn said, her voice calm. "One hundred days of your time. You stay here. You eat breakfast with me. You come home for dinner. You act like the man everyone thinks you are when the cameras are on. No Milan. No Sarah."

Arthur’s face darkened at the mention of the name. "You’re overstepping."

"In exchange," Evelyn continued, ignoring his glare, "on the morning of the one-hundred-and-first day, I will sign the divorce papers. I’ll walk away with nothing. No alimony, no house, no stocks. You get your freedom, Arthur. Completely. You can marry whoever you want, and I’ll never bother you again."

Arthur stepped closer, his shadow looming over her. He smelled of expensive cologne and cold ambition. "You’ve spent three years clinging to this marriage like a parasite. You refused to sign the papers six months ago when I asked. Now you’re just giving it up for a few weeks of my time?"

"One hundred days," she corrected. "That’s all I want."

Arthur looked at the paper again, then back at her. He searched her face, looking for the catch. He saw her pale skin and the slight tremble in her hands, but he interpreted it as nerves, not illness. He didn't see the death sentence she was carrying.

"You’re serious," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "You'll actually leave? No strings attached?"

"You have my word. I’ll even have my lawyer notarize the agreement tomorrow."

Arthur threw the duffel bag onto the bed. He walked to the window, looking out at the manicured gardens below. The silence in the room was suffocating. Evelyn waited, her heart thumping painfully against her ribs. She wasn't asking for his love—she knew that was gone, if it had ever existed. She just wanted to not be alone when the lights went out.

Finally, Arthur turned around. He picked up a pen from the nightstand and scribbled his signature at the bottom of the page with a violent flourish. He tossed the pen onto the bed and stepped toward her, stopping just inches away.

"Fine," he spat, his voice dripping with disdain. "One hundred days. I'll play your little house-husband game. But don't think for a second that this changes anything. I still can't stand the sight of you."

He leaned in closer, his eyes cold and mocking.

"Tell me, Evelyn," Arthur said, tilting his head. "Is that all your love is worth? A hundred days of my time?"

Evelyn took a slow breath, the scent of his cologne stinging her nose. She reached out and straightened his collar, her fingers grazing the warm skin of his neck one last time.

"I’ll see you at breakfast, Arthur," she said.

Arthur pulled away, grabbed his phone, and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Evelyn stood in the center of the silent bedroom, looking at the signed contract on the bed. She picked it up and held it to her chest.

She walked to the window and watched the sun beginning to set, casting long, bloody shadows across the lawn.

"One hundred days," she whispered to the empty room.

She went to her closet, pulled out a small suitcase, and began to unpack Arthur’s things, putting his shirts back into the drawer one by one.