By the time I realized I was living in the pages of a political tell-all, the story was already over. The brilliant, disgraced doctor had retreated to a quiet life in rural Vermont, while the charismatic President and his First Lady governed from the White House. I was supposed to be a footnote, a tragic local girl with a ticking clock on her life. But somehow, against all odds, I married the doctor. I always knew who he was, that his heart belonged to the First Lady. I knew I was living on borrowed time. Yet for three years, his care was absolute. He promised me a lifetime. And just when I started to believe him, just when I thought his love was real, the First Lady was poisoned. He rushed to D.C. to save her. He forgot that today was the day I was supposed to die. 1 Another attack. I bit down hard on the duvet, my hair plastered to my forehead with sweat. The man who was usually here in an instant, the one who held my hand through the fire, was gone. Chloe, my best friend and live-in nurse, dabbed my face with a cool cloth, her eyes red. “He’s never, ever forgotten this date,” she muttered, her voice thick with anger. “How could he not be here today?” I hadn’t felt pain like this in three years. Not since he came into my life. The young assistant I’d sent out for help returned, trembling as he handed Chloe a note. She snatched it and read it aloud, her voice shaking with rage. “‘First Lady Isabelle Vance has been poisoned. They’ve asked for my help. My wife… take care of yourself.’” The ink was still slightly damp. Chloe’s knuckles were white. “When did he leave?” “This morning,” the assistant whispered. Everyone knew what today was. “You can go,” I managed to say. Chloe closed the door, and another wave of agony crashed over me, forcing a tear from the corner of my eye. The moment I heard her name—Isabelle Vance—I knew I had lost. “I’m calling a specialist,” Chloe said, seeing my torment. She turned to leave, then froze. Dr. Julian Croft was the specialist. A world-renowned geneticist, a miracle worker. My condition was something only he could manage. In this high-tech medical sanctuary he called a home, there was no other doctor. I knew his story. I’d read the biography that rocked the nation—the brilliant doctor, the rising political star, and the secret, unrequited love he held for his best friend, Isabelle, who went on to marry the future President. I just never thought his story would end up destroying mine. My chest was a vise, each breath a new torment. I’d known my life was a bit strange—a rare genetic disorder, a life of sterile rooms and careful calculations. It wasn’t until I met Julian that I realized just how strange. My father, desperate after exhausting every medical expert in the country, had tracked down the reclusive Dr. Croft. Dad begged him to take me on as his sole patient. Julian’s price was… unconventional. He wanted a life of total seclusion, a wife to manage his home, a shield against the world that still hounded him for gossip. Dad looked at me, his eyes pleading, and I agreed to the marriage. At first, I kept my distance. I remembered the book. He was the tragic hero who loved the heroine. No matter how brilliant or kind he was, I refused to let my heart get involved. But hearts aren't made of stone. For three years, he was my everything. He mapped my genome, developing treatments that silenced the ticking clock inside me. He designed my diet, my exercise, my entire world. And on the days the attacks were scheduled to come, he never left my side. Everyone had said I wouldn’t live past my sixteenth birthday. Julian promised me I’d outlive them all. I was eighteen now, a miracle of his making. The tell-all was old news. The President was in his second term. I thought Julian had truly left that story behind, that he had genuinely fallen for me. His love was a quiet, intense force, and it had slowly, meticulously, picked the lock on my heart. But just as I was ready to admit it, fate played its cruelest joke. This was supposed to be my last scheduled attack. Julian had said this was the final phase of the treatment. After this, I would be cured. But if the therapy was interrupted, the disease would come back with a vengeance. It would be fatal. He knew that. Last night, he’d held me, whispering against my hair, “Ava, when you’re all better… can we finally be a real husband and wife?” I’d blushed and answered with a soft kiss. And today, he left me to face my death alone, all to save her. The White House has an army of doctors. Why did it have to be him? 2 My vision blurred. When it cleared, fingers were resting on my wrist, checking my pulse. A surge of warmth flooded my chest. I turned my head, the name “Julian” on my lips, but it died in my throat. I looked away, disappointed. “Ava, I got Dr. Albright on a video call. He’s the best we could get on short notice,” Chloe said, trying to soothe me. But I knew it was useless. Sure enough, the doctor on the screen sighed. “I’m sorry. Her condition is beyond my expertise. All I can advise is to manage the pain.” “Manage the pain? You’re the head of immunology at Johns Hopkins, and you can’t even do that?” Chloe’s voice was sharp. I squeezed her hand, giving the screen an apologetic look. Thankfully, the doctor understood. “I’ll try to get another…,” she started, but I shook my head. “Don’t. It’s only a few hours.” No one else could treat me. That’s why my life had an expiration date in the first place. Julian had saved me. And now, he had just pushed me back into the abyss. If he knew this would happen, why did he ever bother to save me at all? A few days passed. My body regressed to its old, fragile state—three steps and I was breathless, five and the world would start to spin. I lay on a chaise lounge on the patio, the sunlight offering no warmth to my pale skin. A dull ache throbbed constantly in my chest. Then, one of the staff said he was back. My heart leaped. I looked up towards the driveway and saw him. He was carrying a woman wrapped in a blanket out of his car, her dark hair stark against the white wool. He carried her into the house without a single glance in my direction. “Ava, that man…” Chloe was furious, ready to charge after him, but I held her back. A metallic taste filled my mouth. I swallowed it down and pulled Chloe away. She might not recognize the woman, but I did. There was only one person whose love for the color blue was so profound it was mentioned in a bestselling biography. The First Lady, Isabelle Vance. Back in my suite of rooms, I couldn’t hold it back any longer. I coughed, and a spray of red dotted the white tissue in my hand. Chloe’s eyes widened in terror. “I’m getting him!” “Chloe, no,” I said, my grip on her arm surprisingly strong. “You are not to go to him. And he is not your boss anymore.” His actions were a billboard. Why should I go looking for more pain? “But he cared so much about you. I saw it.” She wasn’t wrong. I’d seen it too. I’d felt it. But that was conditional. It was real only as long as Isabelle Vance was safe and sound. Compared to her, I was nothing. I could still feel the ghost of our three years, the warmth and the tentative hope. Our first night, our wedding night, I had laid out the terms. “You are the doctor. I am the patient. This is a contract, not a marriage.” He had just smiled, his fingers gently finding my pulse. “We’re already husband and wife, Ava. How could it be anything else?” he’d said, his voice a low hum. When I told him I wouldn’t live past sixteen, his smile only widened. “We’ll see about that.” After that, the symptoms that had plagued my entire life began to vanish, one by one. I tried to pay him, to repay the immeasurable debt, but he always returned the money, bringing me gifts instead. A rare first edition book, a delicate necklace, pastries from a New York bakery he knew I loved. He was wooing me. When I realized my own heart was betraying our contract, I started to pull away. But then came the day of the storm. He stood in the pouring rain, calling my name, shielding a small box of macarons from the deluge. My resolve crumbled. The story was over, I told myself. He’s free. I opened the door. He pulled me into a fierce embrace, his eyes red-rimmed as he promised me forever. The love in his eyes that night was a tidal wave. I thought we could truly have it all. I was wrong. 3 “So, are we going home?” Chloe asked softly, understanding my silence. “I miss Dad.” I wiped the last trace of blood from my lips and asked her for a pen and paper. I wasn’t a fighter, not in that way. A footnote character versus the heroine of the story? There was no contest. When we arrived at Julian’s wing of the house, two grim-faced men in dark suits stood by the door. Secret Service. Before I could process it, one of them stepped forward, blocking my path with a firm arm across my chest. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to step back.” “Ava!” Chloe gasped, rushing forward, but I held her back. “I’m his wife,” I said, my voice quiet. The agent’s expression didn’t change, but his tone was cold steel. “Dr. Croft has forbidden all visitors.” I stood frozen, a bitter taste filling my mouth. This wing of the house, his private sanctuary, had always been open to me. He’d had powerful patients, dignitaries with their own security details, but his standing order was always the same: “My wife is never to be stopped. She can go wherever she pleases.” Now, “all visitors” included me. The whiplash of the last three years, the quiet intimacy replaced by this cold exclusion, was a physical blow. I fought back the tears that pricked my eyes and took a step back. “My apologies.” Chloe, who had been with me since we were children, understood. Swallowing her anger, she stood with me, waiting outside the door. The afternoon sun was hot. I felt dizzy, my legs weak, but I couldn't leave. Not yet. I was afraid if I walked away now, I’d lose my nerve and stay. So I stood there, swaying on my feet, as the world swam in and out of focus. I don’t know how long we waited. The sun was beginning to set when Julian finally emerged. He looked exhausted, his normally immaculate hair disheveled. I had only ever seen him look this worn down when he was fighting for my life. I used to think that look was reserved for me alone. The irony was suffocating. All his whispered promises, all his declarations of love, they were all lies. “What are you doing out here? Have you had dinner?” He looked surprised to see me, and his hand moved instinctively to rest on my shoulder, a familiar gesture of comfort. I stepped away. A trickle of blood escaped the corner of my mouth. The bruise on my neck from the agent’s arm, which had started to fade, now throbbed with a fiery pain. “Who hurt you? Why are you bleeding…?” He looked at me, truly looked at my frail form for the first time in days, and a flicker of confusion crossed his face. He hadn’t seen me this sick in years. I didn’t answer. I just held out a folded piece of paper. He frowned as he took it. His face went white as he read it. “Ava, you want a divorce?” He sounded incredulous, his cool grey eyes darkening. “Yes.” I calmly wiped my lips, my other hand gripping Chloe’s arm to keep her from launching into a tirade. A clean break. That was my style. I was never one to martyr myself for love. There were other men in the world. I wasn’t going to let my life end for a man who was just one chapter in it. “But why? You promised…” He trailed off, the memory of our conversation, of the day he was supposed to be here for me, finally dawning on him. “I’m sorry, Ava. The First Lady’s life was in danger. I had to go.” He stared at me, his eyes pleading. I avoided his gaze. “Just sign it, Julian. Let’s go our separate ways.” He was the tragic hero, of course he was devoted. But I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that his devotion was not for me. 4 “Sign it.” My legs were shaking. I didn’t want to hear any more of his excuses. “Ava, don’t be childish.” He sighed, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. “Your body can’t handle this stress. This was my fault, I admit it. I promise, I will find a way to fix this.” He was apologizing, but his apologies were worthless to me now. “Julian,” I said again, my voice devoid of all warmth. He stared at me, a flicker of fear in his eyes. “Ava, let me check your pulse. Let me help you, please.” He reached for me, but I stumbled back again, my face growing paler. His expression shifted to alarm. He moved to catch me, but a soft, feminine voice called out from behind him. “Julian, it hurts.” That single sentence was all it took. He spun around and rushed back into the room. “Where does it hurt? Let me change the dressing.” He helped her sit up, his voice thick with worry. I looked up and my eyes met hers. Isabelle Vance. Her features were gentle, but her eyes were sharp as knives. The triumphant heroine of a political thriller. Her gaze held a cool disdain, a clear message: Here, with him, I am what matters. Chloe didn’t scream or shout. She simply picked up the divorce papers from the ground where Julian had dropped them, scribbled his name on the signature line, and pulled me away. “We’re going home, Ava,” she said, her voice firm. We walked away slowly, and for the first time in days, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. A smile touched my lips. I should have known. The tragic hero always loves the heroine. The story was over, but the characters hadn't changed. Loving a man tied to a narrative like that was a fool's errand. If I didn’t get out now, I’d be destroyed. “Do we need to pack anything?” Chloe asked as we reached the main gate. I took her hand and stepped out of the wrought iron gates of the estate he called a sanctuary. There was nothing here I wanted to keep. It was dark by the time we got back to my childhood home. My father, having heard the news, rushed to meet me, his eyes red. “Why did you come back?” he asked, his voice filled with worry. Then he saw my pale face, the blue tinge under my eyes, and he fell silent. He hadn’t seen me look this fragile in years. “Let’s get you inside,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He turned away to wipe his eyes, and I pretended not to see. My father was a good man. My mother had died when I was young, leaving him with a sickly daughter everyone said was a lost cause. But he never gave up on me. No one wanted me to be healthy more than him. That’s why he’d agreed to Julian’s insane terms. He just wanted me to live. And now I had returned, a broken contract. He didn't need to ask to know that something had gone terribly wrong. “Dad, you should get some rest,” I said, walking into my old bedroom. It was exactly as I had left it, clean and untouched, as if waiting for my return. Looking at his heartbroken face, I suddenly felt like it was all going to be okay. Whatever happened with the characters in the book, my father was mine alone, untouched by the plot, his love unconditional. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Get some rest, sweetie. Dad’s here for whatever you need.” That was all it took. The dam of my composure threatened to break. “Okay,” I whispered, turning into my room before the tears could fall. I wasn’t a child anymore. I couldn’t let him worry. It wasn't until the door was closed that the tears finally came. A wave of nausea rolled through me, and the blood I’d been suppressing rose in my throat. I eventually fell into an exhausted sleep. But the first thing I heard when I woke up was Chloe’s voice, tight with dread. “He’s here. Julian is here.”
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