The fifth time I received an intimate video sent to me by Owen’s executive assistant—his little bit on the side—a profound weariness just washed over me. I forwarded it to Owen. My text: This posture looks physically uncomfortable for the woman. Owen sent a flurry of voice notes and a wire transfer of ten thousand dollars almost instantly. “Willow, she’s just a kid who doesn’t know any better. I’ll make sure she’s more careful next time.” Next time? There wouldn’t be a next time. After all, I was going to die very soon. I accepted the transfer and booked an extreme travel package to the Arctic Circle. Counting the accumulated payments Owen had sent over the years to apologize for his secretary’s “mistakes,” I had just enough to spend the rest of my dwindling life in the Far North. 1 Owen didn’t get home until the third day. When he walked in, I was sitting on the hardwood floor, surrounded by the debris of ripped-open cardboard boxes. He raised an eyebrow at the collection of gear piled around me—tents, high-altitude oxygen tanks, and mountaineering boots. “Going on a hike?” I didn’t look up, replying casually. “Mmhmm. Thought I’d take a trip.” Owen looked genuinely surprised. In his mind, I was the woman with no life of her own. I never went out, never socialized. The thing I loved doing most was staring at my phone, compulsively checking his location and monitoring his social media footprint. “Good,” he said, nodding as he walked further into the house, eyes still glued to his phone. “Good for you. Get out there and clear your head.” The framed, brightly lit cancer diagnosis report was sitting on the hall table, but he walked right past it without a glance. Then again, why would he look? Two weeks ago, when my nosebleeds started, he told me to drink more water. A week and a half ago, when my hair began falling out in clumps and my complexion had turned the color of parchment, he asked if I was catching a cold and suggested I call an Uber to the clinic. A week ago, I passed out in the hallway. In the last fragmented moment of consciousness, I managed to dial his number—my emergency contact. His voice, tired and exasperated, came through the phone. “Willow, do you have nothing better to do than fake an illness? I’m busy. Stop bothering me.” The call disconnected, but not before I heard Reese’s syrupy, playful whisper: “Tell me, Owen, am I better than she is? Say it…” Just as I finished packing up the shipping material, Owen walked back out of the bedroom, a look of sudden remorse on his face. “Willow, listen. I’ve got a massive deal that just came up this month. I won’t be able to come with you on your trip…” His voice trailed off when he finally noticed the one-person nature of the entire expedition kit. Owen froze, his voice cracking with shock. “You’re… going alone?” “Of course,” I said, giving him a sincere nod. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? I should find something to do with myself.” He looked like I’d just punched him in the throat. The shock quickly morphed into a furious annoyance. “What is with the attitude? Why are you being so deliberately cryptic? I already apologized, didn’t I?” The apology he referred to was the ten thousand dollars. He used to buy me designer bags or diamond necklaces whenever his assistant caused a scene. Eventually, he couldn’t even be bothered with the shopping; he just wired the money for me to buy my own silence. If I really thought about it, this was a profitable exchange. Getting to escape him in the last days of my life, doing what I wanted, and having enough money to fund it all. It was a steal. I smiled, a genuine, easy smile I hadn’t worn in years. “Don’t worry,” I said honestly. “I won’t bring it up again.” 2 Owen’s expression didn’t soften; it grew darker, more ominous. He gritted out a terse, “Whatever,” and stormed into the master bedroom. The slam of the door vibrated through the entire house. A second later, I was on my knees. Blood poured from my nose, hitting the hardwood floor and blooming into a dark, vivid flower. I felt a strange, detached annoyance. Will I be too pasty and bruised to be photogenic by the time I get to the Arctic? Carrying that absurd thought, I gathered my gear and went to the guest room. The chemotherapy had left a searing, relentless pain across my body. I slept poorly. I dreamed of Reese sending me photos of her and Owen, and in the dream, I watched the videos over and over again like a form of self-inflicted torture. I watched the man I loved on top of another woman. I listened to them exchange sickeningly sweet nothings and vulgar private jokes. I watched the mole on Owen’s shoulder—the one I used to trace—tremble slightly in the dim light. I cried and laughed like a hysteric, then smashed everything in the house like a madwoman. I grabbed Owen’s collar, weeping. “Why?” He didn’t answer. He just pulled my hands away and asked me what I wanted. I told him I wanted his love. Owen’s face was etched with weary frustration. “I do love you, Willow.” I shook my head, tears streaming. “I want you to love only me.” He sighed, a painful, bitter sound. “Don’t be greedy, Willow.” He was right. I was terribly greedy. I married the wealthy Owen with nothing but the clothes on my back, and I dared to demand all his love, his focus, his soul. Maybe that’s why fate was punishing me, leaving me less than a month to live. A sharp jolt of pain woke me up. My body was covered in a thousand pinpricks of fire. A chilling gaze fixed on me. Owen was leaning against the guest room doorframe, looking down. Half-awake, I had a brief, comforting flash of memory: years ago, when I was sick, he’d stood guard at my door all night long. He’d helped me put on a jacket later, sighing, “Your health is terrible. You need to eat more. I’m looking up some of those nutrition plans they talk about online…” Owen’s cold voice cut through the memory, dragging me back to the present. “Do you know what time it is?” A sudden chill made me shiver, clearing my mind completely. “Mr. Song, breakfast is ready.” A bright, chirpy voice followed. I looked up and saw Reese step out from behind Owen. She was resting her hand casually on his shoulder, giving me a soft, pitying smile. “Mrs. Song, I made yours too. I just hope it’s to your liking.” I shook my head, politely declining. It didn’t matter if it was to my liking. I hadn’t been able to keep anything down for two weeks. As I got ready to leave for the pharmacy, I saw Reese put a perfect, sunny-side-up egg onto Owen’s plate. The familiar sting of the gesture—an action that once would have sent me into a full-blown hysterical breakdown—still made my heart clench with a dull ache. But thankfully, none of this will concern me soon. 3 After my tests and picking up my medication, I stopped at a law firm. I consulted with a lawyer and had him draft a settlement agreement. As I left the office, a friend request popped up on my phone from someone named Delilah—a member of my Arctic travel group. She’d seen my IP address was local and asked if we could meet up beforehand. I agreed and sent her my location. Delilah was a burst of sunshine, a young, intensely lively girl. She talked my ear off, sharing funny stories and showing me photos of the magnificent places she’d visited. I felt a sudden, sharp envy. Envy of her youth, of her solitude, and of the vast, open future she had, filled with yet-to-be-seen landscapes. My own future was a narrow sliver of time. My past, save for the consuming love I had for Owen, was utterly empty. I let out a long, quiet breath. We talked until late into the night, sitting in a park, enjoying the warm summer breeze. She looked at me earnestly. “Willow, why did you suddenly decide on the Arctic?” I smiled. “Because I’m sick. I’m going to die soon.” Delilah’s smile dissolved instantly. She looked stricken. “I’m so sorry…” I waved it off. She was silent for a long moment, then cautiously gestured to my ring finger. “Will your family be okay with you going somewhere so remote alone?” “I don’t have a family.” “My parents died a long time ago.” She stared at the diamond on my left hand, then back at me, clearly unsure what to say. I smiled, pulled the wedding band from my finger, and tossed it into the nearest public trash can. “I’m filing for divorce tomorrow.” Delilah didn’t know what to do, so after a moment of silence, she just wrapped me in a tight hug. “You have to be happy, Willow.” I nodded. I would be happy. I was walking away from a toxic relationship and a corrupted home. For the few days left to me, I had nothing to worry about. My only task was to figure out how to please myself. I was already happy. We talked until three in the morning before she insisted, citing my fragile health, that she take me home. I was surprised when I pushed the door open. The living room lights were on. Owen, who always went to bed at twelve on the dot, was sitting on the sofa. He saw me and shot to his feet, his face thunderous. He immediately cornered me. “Why weren’t you answering my texts?!” I was momentarily stunned. I took out my phone. He hadn’t just texted; he had called multiple times. I had been so engrossed in my conversation with Delilah that I hadn’t even noticed. He stood up and strode toward me. “Where have you been? Why are you just getting home now?” The intense, high-energy conversation had exhausted me, and I was suddenly hit by overwhelming fatigue. I ignored him and started walking toward the guest room. He yanked my wrist. Owen’s voice went up an octave. “Willow, I’m talking to you!” I turned to face him, looking up at the man whose face was etched with raw, sudden anxiety. I calmly peeled his fingers off my wrist. “Since you made it clear you don’t want me asking about your life, you don’t get to ask about mine.” Without giving him a chance to respond to his rapidly changing expression, I went into the guest room and collapsed into sleep. 4 Thanks to the drugs, I slept until late the next afternoon. When I woke up, Owen was standing by the bed. He was watching me. “You look thinner,” he said abruptly. Chemotherapy, medication, and a body that was rapidly failing—I hadn’t managed a decent meal in weeks. I pushed myself up to sit against the headboard. Owen suddenly held out a thick jacket. I looked at him, confused. He frowned. “You didn’t forget what day it is, did you?” I truly couldn’t remember. He looked annoyed. “Even I remembered it’s our anniversary. You slept until now. When did you start sleeping in so late?” I frowned back. Why was Owen so easily agitated these last two days? He took my hand and pulled me toward the door, heading for the most exclusive, Michelin-starred spot downtown. I had to stop him mid-drive to detour to the law firm to pick up the final divorce papers. When we arrived at the restaurant, the maître d’ immediately recognized Owen. “Mr. Song, your usual private table is ready.” The man’s eyes flickered to me, a flash of surprise in them. After all, the woman who usually joined Owen for late-night trysts in that very place was his executive assistant. Owen awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. I didn’t say anything. I simply took the divorce papers and a pen out of my bag and handed them across the table. He started to flip the pages, then paused, a strange look of realization crossing his face as he looked at my bare ring finger. Something was missing. He was distracted. He flipped to the signature page of the agreement, signing it without even glancing at the financial terms. “I’ve thought about it,” he said, sliding the papers back to me. “The Arctic is too dangerous. I’ll come with you…” Boom. Boom. Boom. Fireworks exploded in the sky above the city. I looked up suddenly. A continuous, brilliant chain of fireworks bloomed, gradually forming two names spelled out in light, connected and intertwined: OWEN and WILLOW. Owen watched me carefully, his eyes searching mine. “Do you like it?” I couldn’t help the slow smile that curved my lips. I loved fireworks. I loved the vibrant colors, the celebratory sound, the simple, dramatic romance of it all. It would be better, of course, if Owen’s name could just be removed. My smile seemed to mesmerize him for a moment. He smiled back, taking out a small, exquisite gift box. “Happy Anniversary, Willow. From now on, I’ll be here for every single one.” “Open the gift.” “No need,” I said, holding up the signed divorce papers. I was still smiling. “I’ve already received the best gift I could ask for.” “After all, I really don’t want to be called Mrs. Owen after I’m dead.”
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "387467", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel