Chapter 4His Fake Depression Cost Him Everything

Trista’s voice was dripping with playful smugness.

"Well? Isn't the RV a million times better? Ice-cold AC, memory foam mattress... I honestly don't get why you insisted on playing the martyr in that dreary hospital room all night."

Mark stretched languidly, chuckling. "Testing Cassidy is one thing, but her mother is innocent. She's an elder, after all. You've got to put on a bit of a show."

Trista rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. "Are you really going back in there later? What a drag."

"Cassidy is rotten to the core, if you ask me. I bet she secretly hopes her mom gets even sicker just so she has a tragic excuse to cling to you. Case in point: blowing up your phone over and over tonight. If someone's dying, call a doctor! Why call you? It's not like you're an oncologist."

Mark paused, his casual demeanor tightening for a split second. "Cassidy called me just now?"

Trista waved a dismissive hand. "You were in the shower, so I hung up for you. Don't mention it, babe."

Mark considered this for a moment.

There were nurses and on-call physicians on the ward—what could possibly happen? His smile returned, that indulgent, affectionate look he always gave his lifelong friend, and he reached out to pinch Trista’s cheek fondly.

I stood outside in the dark.

The moonlight cast my long, solitary shadow across the pavement. My fingers curled tightly into fists.

The heart that had been submerged in icy terror, trembling so hard it couldn't hold a piece of paper, suddenly went dead quiet.

I didn't knock on the door. I didn't cry out.

I just stood there, watching them through the glass for a few silent seconds.

Then I turned around and walked back into the hospital alone.

The on-call doctor sat behind his desk, studying the lab report. His brow furrowed deeply, his eyes lingering on the figures before he silently turned the pages of her medical history.

A long, heavy silence hung in the small office.

My blood ran cold, my voice breaking into jagged shards. "Doctor... let's admit her. We'll start treatment immediately. We beat it once before, five years ago, right? If we do everything we can, we can beat it again, can't we? I... I can work overtime. I just got promoted last month, my salary went up. I'll pay whatever it takes. I'll do anything."

The doctor slowly took off his glasses. His eyes held a quiet, unbearable sympathy, and his voice was hushed.

"Hospitalization... won't change the outcome, miss. Her condition is fundamentally different from five years ago. The metastasis is widespread and extraordinarily aggressive. Aggressive interventions at this stage will only amplify her physical suffering and might even hasten..."

He trailed off, taking in my bloodshot, hollow eyes, before gently concluding:

"If you truly want to do something for her, focus on making her remaining days as comfortable and happy as possible."

My knees buckled. I sank to the floor, burying my face in both hands, my shoulders shaking violently, yet not a single sob escaped my throat.

The doctor reached down, resting a warm, steady hand on my shoulder.

"Go back up to the ward. Don't let her wake up to an empty room and start worrying."

In a trance, I pushed open the ward door.

Mark was already back on the vinyl cot.

Seeing me walk in, his voice was tight with irritation. "Cassidy, seriously? You made this whole grand speech about staying to care for her, and then you just vanish into thin air? Leaving an outsider like me to sit by her bed all night?"

Still reeling from the terminal verdict, I had zero energy left to argue or explain.

I merely frowned, my voice flat and icy.

"Lower your voice. Don't wake her."

Mark bolted upright, trying to keep his voice down but failing to suppress his indignation. "Are you actually blaming me? I'm dealing with severe depression, sitting here watching your mother, and you come at me with an attitude? Cassidy, where the hell is your gratitude?"