"Mrs. Sullivan, the test results are in..." The doctor adjusted his glasses, his voice low. I clenched the hem of my dress, my nails nearly digging into my palms. "Endometrial cancer. Stage four." The words sliced through me like a blade. "How...?" My voice trembled uncontrollably. The doctor flipped open the medical chart, his tone grave. "The complications from your miscarriage two years ago, combined with subsequent infections, led to malignant transformation." "How long do I have?" "Three months. At most." I sat frozen in the examination room, the beeping of machines the only sound in my ears. In the master bedroom of the Sullivan estate, Ethan Sullivan withdrew from me. As always, he walked straight to the bathroom without a word. The sound of running water filled the silence. I curled up on the bed, feeling the stickiness between my legs and the ice in my heart. This was my husband. For three years, he had scrubbed himself clean after every intimacy. As if I were something filthy. The bathroom door opened. He emerged fully dressed. "Ethan," I called softly. He paused, his gaze as cold as if I were a stranger. "Drive safely," was all I could manage to say. The Maybach roared to life downstairs. Barefoot, I moved to the window and dialed his number. "What is it?" Impatience laced his voice. Three years ago, his father had threatened the life of the woman he loved to force him into this marriage. He hated me. Hated me for tearing him apart from Vivian Langley. Hated me for lying beneath him like a whore while he whispered another woman's name. But did he remember? At fourteen, there was a girl who came every day to listen to him play the piano. That piece, The Street Where the Wind Resides, was the last song my mother ever played for me. He would always say as dusk fell, "Time to go home, little one." Back then, Ethan's eyes held light. Then the Laurent family fell. My parents died in a plane crash. I became Lavender City's most powerful orphan. When old Mr. Sullivan showed me his photo, I recognized him instantly. The man in that picture had been my secret for ten years. I gambled everything. Bet he would remember me. Bet this marriage could at least be civil. But I lost. He signed the abortion consent form himself. "Isabella, you don't deserve it." Those words became my eternal nightmare. "Speak." His icy demand snapped me back. I drew a shaky breath. "Ethan, let's make a deal."