Chapter 3

"Ethan, I'm pregnant!" I stared at him in disbelief, my voice shaking. He stood there, expression completely blank.

He knew I had claustrophobia. He knew — and he was still doing this.

"Don't want to go? Then apologize to Kiki."

His tone was flat. Non-negotiable.

The memory of those days in the isolation room — the despair, the dark — flooded back all at once.

Every muscle in my body went rigid. I searched his face, looking desperately for any trace of hesitation, any hint of mercy.

There was none.

I forced a small, hollow smile. My nails bit into my palm. And slowly, I lowered my head.

"Ethan, please — don't force her if she doesn't want to go..." Chelsea's voice wavered softly.

"It's too late for an apology now. You're still going to that room. Think of it as a lesson. Next time, maybe you'll remember to behave."

Ethan delivered his verdict without even looking up.

Ten minutes later, two security guards dragged me down the hallway to the door of the isolation room.

The darkness of that heavy door made me start shaking before I even touched it. Whatever composure I'd been holding together crumbled completely. I begged and struggled, but Ethan and Chelsea just stood to the side and watched with cold eyes.

"It's just being sent to your room. Why are you making such a scene?"

Until I broke down completely, sobbing, and screamed: "Ethan, I want a divorce!"

He laughed.

He walked over, tilted my chin up, and gently wiped the tears from the corners of my eyes. Something almost like pity moved across his face.

"Serena, I gave you your life back. What exactly gives you the right to talk about divorce?"

Then he let go of my chin, shook out his hand like he'd touched something unpleasant, and turned away. "Take her inside."

In the last second before the door of the isolation room slammed shut, I saw Ethan reach over and tuck a loose strand of hair behind Chelsea's ear, his eyes soft and full of warmth.

The heart that had already been broken a thousand times finally shattered for good.

Ethan. Loving you is exhausting. I don't want to do it anymore.

As my consciousness faded, I found myself drifting back to five years ago.

I had just graduated college. My parents had never paid much attention to me, but I had Ethan — a long-distance boyfriend who loved me fiercely.

I thought we'd just keep walking forward together, happy and steady, for the rest of our lives.

Then a routine check-up changed everything. I was diagnosed with stage-two lung cancer.

Cancer. At twenty-three, it felt like a word that belonged to someone else's life entirely.

When my parents found out, they blocked my number. The last thing they said to me was: "Your brother still needs money for a wedding and a house. We don't have anything left for your medical bills."

I gave up. I was ready to let go.

It was Ethan who came back for me. He quit his job at a top firm, drove across the country, sold the condo his parents had bought him, and spent every dollar he had to drag me back from the edge.

Watching his face grow more exhausted and hollow with every passing week, I couldn't bear it. I tried to talk him into letting me stop treatment — more than once.

He just pulled me close, quietly, and held on.

"Serena, I'm going to get you better. We're going to be together for a long, long time."

"Please don't give up. Please."

His voice trembled. There was something almost like begging in it.

His tears soaked through the thin fabric of my hospital gown.