Chapter 2Divorce By Diagnosis Arctic Aurora

Owen’s expression didn’t soften; it grew darker, more ominous.

He gritted out a terse, “Whatever,” and stormed into the master bedroom. The slam of the door vibrated through the entire house.

A second later, I was on my knees.

Blood poured from my nose, hitting the hardwood floor and blooming into a dark, vivid flower. I felt a strange, detached annoyance.

Will I be too pasty and bruised to be photogenic by the time I get to the Arctic?

Carrying that absurd thought, I gathered my gear and went to the guest room. The chemotherapy had left a searing, relentless pain across my body.

I slept poorly.

I dreamed of Reese sending me photos of her and Owen, and in the dream, I watched the videos over and over again like a form of self-inflicted torture. I watched the man I loved on top of another woman. I listened to them exchange sickeningly sweet nothings and vulgar private jokes. I watched the mole on Owen’s shoulder—the one I used to trace—tremble slightly in the dim light.

I cried and laughed like a hysteric, then smashed everything in the house like a madwoman.

I grabbed Owen’s collar, weeping. “Why?”

He didn’t answer. He just pulled my hands away and asked me what I wanted.

I told him I wanted his love.

Owen’s face was etched with weary frustration. “I do love you, Willow.”

I shook my head, tears streaming. “I want you to love only me.”

He sighed, a painful, bitter sound. “Don’t be greedy, Willow.”

He was right. I was terribly greedy. I married the wealthy Owen with nothing but the clothes on my back, and I dared to demand all his love, his focus, his soul.

Maybe that’s why fate was punishing me, leaving me less than a month to live.

A sharp jolt of pain woke me up. My body was covered in a thousand pinpricks of fire.

A chilling gaze fixed on me. Owen was leaning against the guest room doorframe, looking down.

Half-awake, I had a brief, comforting flash of memory: years ago, when I was sick, he’d stood guard at my door all night long. He’d helped me put on a jacket later, sighing, “Your health is terrible. You need to eat more. I’m looking up some of those nutrition plans they talk about online…”

Owen’s cold voice cut through the memory, dragging me back to the present.

“Do you know what time it is?”

A sudden chill made me shiver, clearing my mind completely.

“Mr. Song, breakfast is ready.”

A bright, chirpy voice followed. I looked up and saw Reese step out from behind Owen. She was resting her hand casually on his shoulder, giving me a soft, pitying smile.

“Mrs. Song, I made yours too. I just hope it’s to your liking.”

I shook my head, politely declining. It didn’t matter if it was to my liking. I hadn’t been able to keep anything down for two weeks.

As I got ready to leave for the pharmacy, I saw Reese put a perfect, sunny-side-up egg onto Owen’s plate.

The familiar sting of the gesture—an action that once would have sent me into a full-blown hysterical breakdown—still made my heart clench with a dull ache.

But thankfully, none of this will concern me soon.