Chapter 4

Nora’s POV 

I stood in the dimly lit corridor outside the living room, my hand hovering just an inch from the door handle. My left forearm was still tightly bound in stiff, white gauze, and every small movement of my leg sent pain up my side. I clutched my right hand over my chest, feeling the weak fluttering of my heart. A fool’s hope—a tiny, pathetic hope I thought I had smothered years ago—was somehow still glowing inside me. I was telling myself a story, the kind of fairytale a drowning person invents before going under for the last time. Maybe if they see me like this, I thought, my knuckles white against the door. Maybe if Adrian sees how broken I am, he will remember who I used to be to him. Maybe Natalia will see her mother hurting and feel a child’s instinct to reach out.

I wanted to give them one last chance. Not for my sake, but because a part of me couldn't bear to leave this earth believing that the eight years I gave them had meant absolutely nothing. If there was even a single drop of humanity left in this house, I needed to find it tonight.

I took a slow, painful breath, swallowed the lump in my throat, and turned the handle.

The door swung open. The sitting room was bathed in the warm, golden glow of the fireplace. The air smelled of expensive cedarwood and fresh fruit. Adrian sat on the sofa, his suit discarded, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his forearms. Beside him sat Isla Bennett, leaning comfortably against his shoulder, a cozy cashmere throw draped over her legs. And on the rug at their feet sat my daughter, Natalia, her colored pencils scattered across the floor, looking up at the two of them with a bright, radiant smile I hadn't seen directed at me in years.

The murmur of their laughter died the instant the door clicked shut.

Natalia was the first to turn around. The moment her eyes landed on me, the warmth in her face instantly vanished. Her brow furrowed, and her lip curled upward. Her entire face twisted into a look of bitter disgust and deep annoyance, as if a stray rat had just crawled out from under the furniture.

"Why is she here?" Natalia muttered under her breath, turning her back to me and picking up a red crayon with a harsh snatch. The sting of her expression hit me like a physical blow, but I forced my feet to move forward, dragging my bandaged, burning leg across the floor. "Natalia..." I rasped out.

The moment I stepped into his field of vision, Adrian's eyes shifted away, dropping down to the fruit bowl resting on the coffee table. His expression turned hard, cold, and bored. He picked up a fork, speared a neatly sliced piece of an apple, and brought it to Isla’s lips.

Isla opened her mouth with a soft giggle, taking the fruit from his hand. As she chewed, her eyes drifted over Adrian's shoulder and locked directly onto mine. There was no pain in her eyes. No remorse. The corners of Isla's lips lifted into a small, triumphant smirk.

"Adrian," I said, my voice trembling as I took another painful step toward the sofa. I held my bandaged left arm slightly forward, desperately trying to draw his eyes to the gauze wrapping my hand. "Adrian... please look at me. I... I need to tell you something."

Adrian picked up another slice of apple, his voice flat and icy as he cut me off. "I'm not doing this tonight, Nora."

"Adrian, listen to me," I pleaded, stepping closer, my voice cracking slightly. "The doctor... he gave me my test results. I'm sick. Truly sick. He said my body is failing, Adrian. He told me I don't have much time left—"

"Enough!"

Adrian slammed the fork down onto the table with a sharp, deafening sound that made the bowl rattle. He turned his head toward me, his eyes burning not with concern, but with annoyance.

"Is this your new tactic?" Adrian snapped, his voice sharp enough to slice glass. "First you throw a tantrum in the kitchen and burn Isla, and now you come in here inventing fatal illnesses to drag the attention back to yourself? Do you have any idea how pathetic you sound?"

"I'm not inventing it!" Tears finally spilled over my face, hot and scalding against my cheeks. "Adrian, look at my hand! Look at my leg! The doctor said... he said I might not even make it through the next three months!"

"I don't care!" Adrian roared, standing up from the sofa so abruptly that Isla let out a startled gasp. He took a menacing step toward me, towering over my frame, his face a mask of disgust.

"Do you hear me, Nora?" he spat. "I do not care if you're sick. I do not care about your little pathetic drama, and quite frankly, if you dropped dead right here on this floor tonight, it would save us all a great deal of trouble. Stop acting like a martyr in front of my daughter!"

The room went dead silent, save for the clock on the wall. The words hung in the air. I do not care if you drop dead. I stood frozen, my heart shattering into a thousand pieces. I looked down at Natalia, expecting—praying for—some flicker of horror on her young face, anything that would make her defend her mother against such cruel words.

Natalia didn't look shocked. She didn't look sad. She simply looked up from her drawing, glared at me with cold, detached eyes, and spoke in a clear, flat voice that mirrored her father's tone perfectly.

"I don't want you here either, Mommy," Natalia said, her tone entirely devoid of affection. "You're always crying and making Isla sad. Why can't you just leave us alone?"

I stared at my daughter. The child I had carried for nine months. The child whose laughter had once been the only light in my miserable existence. She looked at me not as a mother, but as an unwanted nuisance. Adrian didn't reprimand her. He simply turned back to the sofa, sitting down beside Isla again. He reached out, gently taking Isla's wrapped hand in his, rubbing his thumb over her wrist with a tenderness he had never once offered me in eight long years of marriage.

"Does it hurt, Isla?" Adrian asked, his voice instantly transforming back into that affectionate tone as he blew gently on her wrapped fingers. "Let me get you some water."

"It stings a little, Adrian," Isla murmured, leaning her head on his shoulder, casting another quick, mocking glance at me. "But I'm just glad Natalia is happy."

"You're so good to us, Isla," Adrian murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her head.

I stood there in the center of the room, watching the three of them. My husband, holding another woman in his arms. My daughter, snuggled up against that same woman's knees, laughing as Adrian fed Isla another piece of fruit.

They were a family. A complete, perfect one. And I was nothing.

Slowly, the heavy, suffocating pain inside my chest began to change. The pathetic need for their love—it all began to cool, hardening into a weightless stillness.

I closed my eyes for a second, letting out a long, slow breath.

When I opened them again, I didn't cry. The tears on my cheeks felt cold and unnecessary. I looked at Adrian, at Isla, and at Natalia one last time, taking in the full sight of the prison I had spent eight years building for myself.

And then, a sound escaped my throat.

It was a laugh.

A quiet laugh that started deep in my chest and spilled out into the quiet room. It wasn't a bitter laugh, nor was it insane. It was the incredulous chuckle of someone who had finally seen the punchline to a long, tragic joke.

I was laughing at myself. I was laughing at the eight years I had wasted bleeding myself dry for a man who wouldn't even glance at my corpse, and a daughter who wished I didn't exist. I was laughing at the utter absurdity of giving them a "last chance" when they had written me off years ago.

Adrian turned his head sharply, frowning at me with disgust. "What is wrong with you? Have you lost your mind?"

I didn't answer him. I didn't owe him another word, another explanation, or another tear. Without saying a single thing, I simply turned around. My bandaged leg throbbed with pain as I took my first step away from them, but I didn't limp. I held my head up, stepped out of the room, and pulled the door closed behind me.

I walked down the long corridor toward my bedroom. It was time to leave.

I had three months left to live—and I was no longer going to spend a single second of it breathing the air in this house.