The blinds cut the rainlight into jagged strips across the exam room. The doctor shuffled papers, his gold pen clicking like a nervous tic. Evelyn traced the seam of her handbag, its leather cold as the stethoscope that had just pressed against her back. "Miss Langley, did you come alone?" Evelyn frowned slightly. It was just a routine checkup to collect test results—why the fuss? Family? What family did she have left? Her mother died in childbirth. Her father saw her as a cash cow. Her brother blamed her for their mother's death. And her husband? She'd schemed to steal him away. If the doctor hadn't mentioned the word "family," she might have forgotten what it even meant. "Just me," she replied calmly. The doctor adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and sighed, his gaze filled with pity. He slid a stack of reports across the desk. "Stage IV gastric cancer." Her fingers trembled as she took the papers. The dense medical jargon meant little to her, but the grotesque shadow in the endoscopy photo told her everything. The doctor pointed at the CT scan, explaining in detail, but she only caught fragments: "metastasis," "chemotherapy," "life expectancy." "We recommend immediate hospitalization." "Can it be cured?" Her voice was hoarse. His silence was answer enough. Evelyn stuffed the reports into her bag and stood to thank him. As she turned to leave, she heard another sigh behind her. Outside, a light drizzle fell. The icy wind whipped the rain against her face. She opened her umbrella, but nothing could shield her from the cold seeping into her bones. March shouldn’t feel this frigid. But her chill came from within, spreading through her veins like poison. The wedding ring on her finger glinted dully. Spring in Los Angeles had arrived abruptly—just like her death sentence. The taxi driver studied the woman curled in the backseat through the rearview mirror. "Beverly Hills," she said. The endoscopy image seemed to burn through her bag. That twisted, ruined organ was part of her. Four years of marriage. Every day, she’d cooked his favorite dishes—braised ribs, steamed sea bass. She’d draft texts only to delete them, settling for a simple, "Dinner’s ready." Vincent Roland had never come home for a single meal. Now, she wouldn’t have to wait anymore. Tears splattered the diagnosis. The driver saw her shaking shoulders in the mirror. "Miss, whatever it is, it’ll pass. Get some rest." "Thank you." Her voice cracked. The last kindness she’d receive came from a stranger. The car stopped at the gated community. $28 fare, paid by scan. Before stepping out, she shredded the diagnosis and tossed it into the trash. The wind dried her tears. Evelyn straightened her posture, once again the poised heiress of the Langley family. Only her pallor betrayed her.