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Chapter 1: The Bitter Melon

The moment the lead oncologist handed me the manila folder containing my terminal stomach cancer diagnosis, I made a silent, unshakeable decision in the sterile, fluorescent-lit office.

I was going to give Gavin back his freedom.

I loved Gavin. I had loved him with a terrifying, all-consuming, silent devotion since we were in university. But I knew, with the absolute, agonizing certainty of a mathematician reading a flawed equation, that he did not love me. The only woman he had ever truly loved was my former best friend, Vivian.

But love doesn’t save failing empires. Three years ago, when the multi-billion-dollar logistics conglomerate owned by Gavin’s family was teetering on the edge of total, catastrophic bankruptcy, I defied my own family’s aggressive, unanimous objections to bail him out. I leveraged my entire personal trust fund and my unyielding position as CEO of my mother’s venture capital firm to absorb his toxic debts.

My board of directors, however, demanded absolute, physical collateral. They required our assets to be legally bound to prevent a corporate flight. I offered Gavin a ruthless, non-negotiable ultimatum: marry me, merge our portfolios under my firm’s umbrella, and I would guarantee his family’s legacy would rise from the ashes.

I still remember the look on his face in that glass-walled boardroom. He had stared at the proxy marriage contract, his handsome features shifting from sheer shock to a burning, visceral anger.

“Rowan, on what basis do you think I will ever agree to this extortion?” Gavin had spat, slamming his palms flat on the mahogany table.

“The basis of survival,” I had replied calmly, gently turning the heavy diamond pen in my fingers. “You need to carefully consider whether your bruised pride is more important than your father avoiding a federal indictment for corporate negligence.”

Faced with the total destruction of everything his grandfather had built, Gavin chose the lesser of two evils. He picked up the pen. He signed the papers. He chose power over love.

And for three years, I was content to play the role of the cold, calculating, devoted wife. Unripe melons aren’t sweet, but they quench a desperate thirst. I thought I had time. I thought that if I protected him long enough, the ice between us would eventually thaw.

But now, staring at the stark, high-definition black-and-white MRI scans of the aggressive, inoperable tumors eroding my stomach lining, I realized my time was completely, irrevocably gone.

If you have the capacity to love a man enough to chain him to you, you must eventually find the courage to unchain him.

Chapter 2: The Spilled Wine

That evening, I sat in the back of my chauffeured sedan and called Gavin. It was the first time I had proactively dialed his personal cell phone in our three years of marriage. We usually communicated through our executive assistants.

It rang for a long time. Finally, the line clicked open. “Hello?” Gavin’s voice was distant, clipped, radiating an aura of professional annoyance.

“It’s me. Rowan,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “Are you free tonight? Can you come home for dinner?”

There was a heavy, suffocating pause on the line. I realized, with a sickening twist in my chest, that he didn’t even have my personal phone number saved in his contacts.

“I’ll have to check my schedule,” Gavin replied vaguely, eager to disconnect.

“I’ll be waiting,” I said softly. But before I could finish the sentence, the line went dead.

Despite the bitter coldness of our marriage, I wanted to try one last time to be a normal wife. I dismissed the household staff early. I wasn’t a good cook—my life had been spent navigating hostile corporate takeovers, not kitchens. I attempted to slice vegetables, but a sudden wave of agonizing, cancerous dizziness washed over my brain. The heavy chef’s knife slipped, biting deeply into my index finger. Blood gushed out, pooling dark and heavy on the white marble countertop.

I wrapped a thick bandage around the cut, ignoring the sharp, throbbing pain radiating from my abdomen. I managed to salvage a burnt steak and a decent green salad. I ordered massive bouquets of fresh white orchids and pulled a ridiculously expensive bottle of vintage Bordeaux from the climate-controlled cellar. The doctors had strictly, expressly forbidden alcohol due to the severe ulcerations in my stomach lining, but I didn’t care. I was dying anyway. Why not be drunk for my final performance?

I put on a stunning, backless sky-blue silk dress. I remembered Gavin once complimenting Vivian on how beautiful she looked in a blue gown at a charity gala. I thought, perhaps, if the lighting was dim enough, he might look at me the same way.

Everything was perfect. The only thing missing was my husband.

I sat at the head of the massive, formal dining table. The antique grandfather clock ticked loudly, echoing in the empty, cavernous house. Seven o’clock passed. Then nine. Then eleven.

By midnight, the food was ice cold. The wax from the candelabras had melted into thick, deformed puddles on the pristine linen tablecloth.

My heart physically aching, I picked up my phone and dialed his number one last time.

It picked up on the second ring.

“Who is it, darling?”

The voice that echoed through the speaker didn’t belong to Gavin. It was a woman’s voice. High-pitched, breathless, and unmistakable.

It was Vivian.

My breath caught in my throat. “Wrong number,” I choked out, my voice barely a whisper.

I disconnected the call. The silence of the house crashed down on me like a collapsing building. I had spent all afternoon bleeding in the kitchen, waiting all night in a dress I thought he would like. Was my entire existence, my ultimate financial sacrifice to save his family from ruin, so utterly insignificant compared to her?

A violent, blinding rage finally erupted through my bottomless sorrow.

I stood up, grabbed the heavy, untouched bottle of Bordeaux by the neck, and violently hurled it across the room. It smashed directly into the glass face of the grandfather clock.

The glass shattered into a thousand pieces. The red wine exploded across the expensive silk wallpaper like fresh arterial blood.

The sudden physical exertion was too much for my failing, fragile body. A sharp, tearing agony ripped through my stomach lining. I collapsed heavily to my knees, gasping for air, and violently vomited a mouthful of dark, thick blood onto the Persian rug.

I knelt there in the ruins of my dining room, staring at the blood mixing seamlessly with the spilled wine.

It was all so pathetic.

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