Chapter 1Not Your Savior

He was dying. The doctor had already told me to prepare for the worst.

I’d rushed to the hospital, only to find him struggling to draw up a will.

I thought it was for us—for the future we were supposed to build together.

Instead, the will declared in cold, black ink: all assets would go to his sister.

Ten years of going Dutch. I’d never spent a dime of his money.

Now, he looked at me, his gaze weak, filled with an unspoken, entitled dependence.

I turned and walked away. "Don't expect me to take care of you."

* * *

The sterile stench of antiseptic clung to the air, thick and suffocating, coating the back of my throat. I stood at the door of the hospital room, my eyes fixed on the rhythmic green pulse of the heart monitor. Every beat, every jagged peak and valley, frayed my already shattered nerves.

Leo lay in the bed, his face a ghastly shade of gray, his lips cracked and dry. The man I knew—warm, handsome, vibrant—was gone. In his place lay a hollowed-out shell, a husk of a man devoured by disease.

The doctor had spoken to me just moments before. His words were gentle, couched in careful euphemisms, but the meaning was brutally clear: Leo was critical.

Ten years.

I had been tangled up with this man for a decade. From the bright-eyed optimism of our college days to the daily grind of our careers, I had believed we were each other’s bedrock, an unbreakable support system.

A wave of nausea and grief churned in my stomach. I swallowed hard, forcing the tears back down.

"Evie..."

He spoke, his voice a dry, ragged whisper, like the wheezing of a broken accordion.

I rushed to his side, my hand closing over his, which felt as cold as stone. "Leo, I'm here."

With a visible effort, he shifted his gaze past me, toward the lawyer standing silently by the wall.

"The... will."

My heart plummeted.

Had it really come to this?

But then a second thought surfaced. Maybe this was for the best. Settling his affairs might lift a weight from his shoulders, perhaps even help him fight.

I assumed the will was about our future. The apartment we rented together, the small condo in the suburbs we were saving for, the life we…

The lawyer, a stone-faced man in his late forties, adjusted his glasses. He opened his briefcase and produced a document.

"Mr. Coleman," he began, his voice clear and detached, each word a frozen pebble dropping into the pit of my stomach. "As per your instructions, the contents of your last will and testament are as follows."

"I, Leo Coleman, being of sound mind, do hereby declare this to be my last will. Upon my death, all my property, including but not limited to real estate, savings, stocks, and other securities, shall be bequeathed in their entirety to my sister, Chloe Coleman, and to her alone."

The world went silent.

The only sounds were the roaring in my ears and the distant, tinny beeping of the monitor.

I wrenched my head around, my eyes locking onto Leo's.

He was watching me, his gaze—once so full of tenderness—now held nothing but a sick, entitled dependency. It was as if he were saying, I'm in this state. Surely you can understand? I've taken care of everything. All you have to do is take care of me, just like always.

A soft click came from the doorway.

Chloe was leaning against the frame, arms crossed, a smirk of pure, undisguised triumph dancing on her lips. She looked at me as if I were the world's biggest fool.

A free caretaker who’d served her brother for ten years, only to be kicked to the curb at the finish line.

Ten years of going Dutch.

The phrase exploded in my mind like a cruel joke.

On our first date, he’d said going fifty-fifty was a sign of respect for my independence. After that, every dinner, every movie ticket, every vacation was split down the middle, calculated to the last cent.

I thought it was the modern way, a partnership built on mutual respect and financial independence. I had never taken a single penny from him. I was even proud of our so-called equality.

But now, I understood.

In his eyes, in his family's eyes, my independence, my refusal to be a freeloader, was just proof that I "knew my place." It was proof that I had no claim to any part of his life.

And yet, he had felt perfectly entitled to a decade of my unwavering companionship and care, all given without expectation of return.

Now, sick and dying, he was leaving everything to his precious sister, then turning to me with those weak, innocent eyes, silently demanding I stay and continue playing the role of the selfless, devoted partner.

On what grounds?

A tidal wave of rage and humiliation surged from the soles of my feet to the crown of my head. The blood pounded in my veins, hot and furious. I felt like a clown who’d been performing a one-woman show for ten years, all for the amusement of his family.

"Evie, you... you won't leave me, right?" Leo's voice was faint, but a flicker of panic entered his eyes as he saw my silence. He struggled to reach for my hand.

That whisper, that question, was the hammer blow that shattered the last fragment of affection I held for him.

I yanked my hand away.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to quell the sickness rising in my throat. I forced myself to meet his gaze, my own eyes now stripped of all warmth.

Then I turned and walked toward the door, each step deliberate, each footfall landing on the ashes of my youth.

"Don't expect me to take care of you."

My voice was quiet, but it was as cold and sharp as a blade of ice, slicing through the cloying, fraudulent sentiment in the room.

Leo's eyes widened in shock and terror.

And by the door, Chloe's triumphant expression froze, then twisted into a snarl of fury.

"Evelyn! What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

She lunged forward, blocking my path, her body rigid with rage. "My brother is lying there, dying! Have you no soul? You think you can just walk out? Not a chance in hell!"

I looked at her face, contorted by a grotesque mix of greed and jealousy, and I almost laughed. It was pathetic. I didn't waste my breath arguing. I just held her gaze.

"Move."