The day Isabella Hawthorne received her stomach cancer diagnosis, her husband, Sebastian Blackwood, was tending to his first love’s children. In the sterile hospital corridor, Alexander Whitmore held the biopsy report with a grim expression. "Isabella, the results are in. For a stage 3A malignant tumor, the five-year survival rate with surgery is 10 to 20 percent." Her slender fingers tightened around the strap of her sling bag. Pale and solemn, she swallowed hard. "Alexander, how long do I have if I refuse treatment?" "Six months to a year. It varies. But in your case, I’d recommend chemotherapy first to shrink the tumor before surgery. It’ll reduce the risk of metastasis." She bit her lip, forcing out a brittle, "Thank you." "Don’t thank me. Let me admit you immediately," Alexander urged. "No." Her voice was firm. "I won’t survive treatment. I can’t go through that." He opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off with a shake of her head. "Alexander, please keep this between us. My family can’t know." The Hawthorne family was already drowning in debt. Isabella had been scraping together every penny for her father William’s medical bills. If they learned of her illness, it would only push them deeper into despair. Alexander sighed. "Your secret’s safe with me. But… I heard you’re married. Your husband—" "Just take care of my father," she interrupted sharply, already turning away. She couldn’t bear to discuss Sebastian. Not now. Once the brightest star in medical school, she had dropped out to marry him. Now, two years later, she was the sole caretaker for her ailing father. Even when she collapsed from exhaustion and strangers rushed her to the hospital, Sebastian never came. She remembered the early days—how tender he had been. Then Victoria Kensington returned, pregnant, and everything shattered. There had been an accident. Both she and Victoria fell into the water. As she struggled, she watched Sebastian swim toward Victoria without hesitation. The trauma sent them both into premature labor. Isabella arrived at the hospital too late. Her baby was already gone. A week later, Sebastian demanded a divorce. She refused. Now, with death looming, she couldn’t hold on any longer. Her hands trembled as she dialed his number. He answered on the third ring. His voice was ice. "Unless it’s about signing divorce papers, don’t waste my time." Tears burned her throat, but she swallowed them. Then Victoria’s voice floated through the line. "Sebastian, the pediatrician is ready for the twins." The dam broke. Her child was dead. Her family ruined. And he had built a new life without her. No more begging. Weakly, she whispered, "Sebastian, let’s divorce." A stunned pause. Then a cold laugh. "What game are you playing now, Isabella?" She closed her eyes. "I’ll be waiting at home." Hanging up took the last of her strength. She slid down the wall, rain soaking through her clothes as she muffled her sobs in her sleeve. Across town, Sebastian stared at his phone. After a year of her stubborn refusals, why surrender now? And why had her voice sounded so broken? Outside, the storm raged. He strode from the hospital ward. "Sebastian!" Victoria called after him, clutching their twins. When he didn’t stop, her sweet smile twisted into something dark. That wretched Isabella still wouldn’t let go. The house he hadn’t entered in months was dark. No warm meal waited on the table—just a vase of dead roses. Isabella would never leave withered flowers out. She hadn’t been home. The door creaked open. Drenched and shivering, Isabella faced him. His icy gaze raked over her, but her once-bright eyes were dull. "Where were you?" he demanded. "Since when do you care?" His lips curled. "I need you alive to sign the papers." The words stabbed deep, but she didn’t flinch. Calmly, she pulled an envelope from her bag. "Already signed." She placed the documents on the table. The word "divorce" glared up at him, more offensive than he’d expected. Her only request: ten million in alimony. "Ah. So it’s about money," he sneered. The old Isabella would have fought back. Now, she just stood there, exhausted. "Legally, I could take half of everything, Mr. Blackwood. Ten million is mercy." He stepped closer, shadow swallowing her. His fingers gripped her chin. "What did you call me?" "Mr. Blackwood. Or should I say ‘ex-husband’?" She wrenched free. "Sign and leave." His jaw clenched. "This is my house." A hollow laugh escaped her. "Fine. I’ll move out once it’s finalized." She met his gaze, voice like frost. "Nine a.m. tomorrow at City Hall. Don’t be late."