Chapter 4

All along, my romantic keepsakes were just receipts of his infidelity.

Whenever I told him I loved the arrangements, what was he thinking?

*Maya is so damn easy to fool.*

After Vivian drew the battle lines, she didn't waste a second.

Whenever Julian came to sit by my bed, her FaceTime calls would ring right on cue, giggling about a new lingerie haul she wanted him to see.

If calls didn't pull him away, she’d conveniently "trip" down the stairs, showing up at the hospital with a sprained ankle, sobbing until Julian scooped her into his arms to soothe her.

Behind my back, they were already sharing dreams, hobbies, and futures.

I watched with my own eyes as the lust in Julian’s gaze turned into tender affection. Real love.

I cried, I screamed, but in every tug-of-war, I lost.

Julian would only brush me off: "Maya, she has terminal cancer. She doesn't have much time."

I stared at his familiar face, desperately trying to find a trace of the boy who once wept over my bruised hands.

Whenever he occasionally brought up our sweet past, it felt like swallowing crushed glass mixed with sugar. I used those scraps of memories to patch up my shredded marriage.

Until one afternoon, Julian stormed into my room, his face dark as thunder.

He lit a cigarette, the smoke burning my lungs. "Did you send goons to trash Vivian’s shop?"

I coughed, confused. "I don't know what you’re talking about."

Julian paced furiously.

"You think she wouldn't tell me?! If I hadn't dropped by, I wouldn't have known her shop was vandalized, with 'WHORE' spray-painted across her walls!"

"Her body is already giving out! How could you push her like this?! You’re both women—how can you be so damn malicious?!"

The realization hit me instantly. Vivian staged the whole thing to force Julian’s hand.

"I didn't do it," I said flatly.

"Stop lying! Who else would do this besides you?!"

Enraged, Julian lunged forward and slapped me hard across the face.

*Smack.*

"You’ve been praying for her to drop dead, haven't you?! I saw your search history on our shared cloud account!"

Right. Back when we loved each other without reservations, we shared everything—our food, our bank accounts, our digital logins.

During this stay, I indeed searched dozens of times: *Life expectancy for cancer patients.*

Except it had nothing to do with Vivian.

Ignoring the burning sting on my cheek, I reached up and pulled off my wig, exposing my patchy, thinning scalp.

"I’m the one with cancer, Julian."

If he still gave a damn, he would pull me into his arms like he did ten years ago and tell me he’d fix it.

This was his very last chance.

Julian stared at my bald head, stunned. But then, a flicker of raw disgust crossed his eyes.

No heartbreak. No terror. No remorse.

He simply scoffed, "Maya, you’re not a kid anymore. Faking terminal illness just to play jealous mind games? That’s disgusting."

*Disgusting.*

In that single second, I buried ten years of love into the dirt.