Chapter 1Divorce By Diagnosis Arctic Aurora

The fifth time I received an intimate video sent to me by Owen’s executive assistant—his little bit on the side—a profound weariness just washed over me.

I forwarded it to Owen.

My text: This posture looks physically uncomfortable for the woman.

Owen sent a flurry of voice notes and a wire transfer of ten thousand dollars almost instantly.

“Willow, she’s just a kid who doesn’t know any better. I’ll make sure she’s more careful next time.”

Next time?

There wouldn’t be a next time.

After all, I was going to die very soon.

I accepted the transfer and booked an extreme travel package to the Arctic Circle. Counting the accumulated payments Owen had sent over the years to apologize for his secretary’s “mistakes,” I had just enough to spend the rest of my dwindling life in the Far North.

* * *

Owen didn’t get home until the third day.

When he walked in, I was sitting on the hardwood floor, surrounded by the debris of ripped-open cardboard boxes.

He raised an eyebrow at the collection of gear piled around me—tents, high-altitude oxygen tanks, and mountaineering boots.

“Going on a hike?”

I didn’t look up, replying casually. “Mmhmm. Thought I’d take a trip.”

Owen looked genuinely surprised. In his mind, I was the woman with no life of her own. I never went out, never socialized. The thing I loved doing most was staring at my phone, compulsively checking his location and monitoring his social media footprint.

“Good,” he said, nodding as he walked further into the house, eyes still glued to his phone. “Good for you. Get out there and clear your head.”

The framed, brightly lit cancer diagnosis report was sitting on the hall table, but he walked right past it without a glance.

Then again, why would he look?

Two weeks ago, when my nosebleeds started, he told me to drink more water.

A week and a half ago, when my hair began falling out in clumps and my complexion had turned the color of parchment, he asked if I was catching a cold and suggested I call an Uber to the clinic.

A week ago, I passed out in the hallway. In the last fragmented moment of consciousness, I managed to dial his number—my emergency contact.

His voice, tired and exasperated, came through the phone.

“Willow, do you have nothing better to do than fake an illness? I’m busy. Stop bothering me.”

The call disconnected, but not before I heard Reese’s syrupy, playful whisper:

“Tell me, Owen, am I better than she is? Say it…”

Just as I finished packing up the shipping material, Owen walked back out of the bedroom, a look of sudden remorse on his face.

“Willow, listen. I’ve got a massive deal that just came up this month. I won’t be able to come with you on your trip…”

His voice trailed off when he finally noticed the one-person nature of the entire expedition kit.

Owen froze, his voice cracking with shock. “You’re… going alone?”

“Of course,” I said, giving him a sincere nod. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? I should find something to do with myself.”

He looked like I’d just punched him in the throat. The shock quickly morphed into a furious annoyance.

“What is with the attitude? Why are you being so deliberately cryptic? I already apologized, didn’t I?”

The apology he referred to was the ten thousand dollars. He used to buy me designer bags or diamond necklaces whenever his assistant caused a scene. Eventually, he couldn’t even be bothered with the shopping; he just wired the money for me to buy my own silence.

If I really thought about it, this was a profitable exchange. Getting to escape him in the last days of my life, doing what I wanted, and having enough money to fund it all.

It was a steal.

I smiled, a genuine, easy smile I hadn’t worn in years.

“Don’t worry,” I said honestly. “I won’t bring it up again.”