Chapter 2

Five days after the diagnosis, at nine in the morning, the chemotherapy room at Cleveland General Hospital reeked of disinfectant so sharp it made me want to retch.

Spencer had said I needed to start treatment within a week. I'd dragged it out to the fifth day before finally mustering the courage to walk through these doors. I'd spent the past few days scrambling for excuses to explain my frequent absences to Bradley—"a friend invited me for coffee," "company health check-up," "going to the library to read"...

I sat in the cold, hard chemotherapy chair, watching Spencer carefully adjust the IV line. The sparse number of patients made the room feel eerily empty, every tiny sound amplified infinitely.

"Are you sure you don't want to tell your family?" Spencer's voice was barely above a whisper. "The chemo side effects will be obvious—nausea, vomiting, hair loss... you'll have a hard time hiding it."

I gripped the chair's armrest so tightly my knuckles turned white. "He's always said I fake illness for sympathy since we were kids. I don't want to prove him right." The moment the needle pierced my vein, I couldn't help but gasp. The ice-cold medication began flowing through my bloodstream, like countless ants gnawing at my bone marrow.

"Paisley, you're not faking illness," Spencer's eyes were full of heartache. "You're trying to save your life."

I shook my head with a bitter smile. "To him, there's no difference."

The drug's effects became more pronounced. The nauseating churning in my stomach nearly broke my control. I bit my lip hard, refusing to let out any sound.

No one could know. Especially not Bradley.

Hours later, the medication was doing its work inside me. I forced myself to leave the hospital, each step feeling like walking on cotton. Spencer insisted on driving me home, but I refused—I couldn't let anyone see me getting too close to a doctor.

At six in the afternoon, I finally returned to the Whitman family's luxurious kitchen. The nauseating churn in my stomach nearly knocked me off my feet, but I had to prepare dinner—it was my only value in this house.

I forced my body to cut vegetables, but my hands trembled uncontrollably. The sharp blade looked blurry through my failing vision.

"CRASH!"

The soup pot hit the floor hard, scalding broth splashing everywhere, turning the entire kitchen into chaos.

I scrambled to clean it up, but felt dizzy and could barely keep my footing.

"What's wrong with you now?"

Bradley's voice came from the kitchen doorway, cold enough to make me shiver. I turned to see him standing there in his impeccable suit, his face frighteningly dark.

"You've been clumsy lately," he frowned, his voice dripping with irritation. "Are you going to cause me more trouble?"

I gripped the counter to barely stand. "Maybe I'm catching a cold, feeling a bit dizzy."

As soon as I spoke, my stomach churned again. I clenched my teeth, refusing to show any signs of weakness.

"Don't infect me. I have an important client meeting tomorrow." Bradley stepped back in disgust. "Just let the housekeeper handle these chores. Don't push yourself."

"I want to do it myself..." My voice was as weak as a mosquito's buzz.

"Enough, stop making a mess." He waved dismissively and turned to leave.

Watching his retreating figure, my heart stung. So in his eyes, even my cooking was unnecessary.

I silently cleaned up the kitchen disaster, every movement careful, afraid of causing more trouble. By the time everything was spotless, it was already eight o'clock.

I curled up on the living room sofa, watching Bradley from afar as he spread documents across the coffee table to work. The chemo side effects left me completely drained, but I didn't dare show it. I could only watch him quietly, recalling those already-blurred warm moments.

That rainy night when I was sixteen, when Mom Hadley died.

I cried my heart out, nearly breaking down completely. Though Bradley had been cold to me over the years, he'd never been as vicious as when we were children.

Faced with my mother's death, eighteen-year-old Bradley approached me for the first time. Perhaps in that moment, he remembered the pain of losing his own mother at ten, finally understanding that heartbreaking agony.

"You still have family, you still have us." He embraced my trembling form somewhat stiffly. "I'll protect you."

In that moment, I thought he was beginning to love me, thought I finally had real family. But looking back now, maybe it was just instinctive sympathy from someone who'd also lost a mother, feeling for another person who'd lost their closest relative.

And now, even that sympathy was gone.

"You look terrible. Are you going to call in sick again?" Bradley said without looking up. "The company's really busy lately. Stop having issues all the time."

He couldn't even spare me a glance—it felt like wasted time to him. Seventeen years, and I was still waiting for a hug that would never come.

The doorbell interrupted my thoughts. Madison appeared at the door in an elegant black dress, carrying champagne and beautiful gift boxes.

"Congratulations on the project success!" She walked toward Bradley with a brilliant smile, planting a light kiss on his cheek. "The Johnson Group contract is finally signed!"

Seeing this scene, my heart felt like someone was squeezing it hard. They were so perfectly matched, so natural together, while I was just unnecessary background in this picture.

"Paisley, you look exhausted," Madison suddenly turned to me, a flash of concern in her eyes. "Are you working too hard?"

Her concern caught me off guard. This woman I saw as my "rival" was showing more care for my condition than Bradley.

"Just a bit of a cold." I forced a smile.

"Want me to recommend a good doctor? I know many specialists." Madison suggested earnestly.

Bradley waved dismissively. "She's been sickly since childhood. She's used to it. Don't make a big deal."

Used to it.

Those three words were like a sharp knife stabbing straight into my heart.

Madison looked confused, glancing between Bradley and me, seeming to want to say something but ultimately choosing silence.

Her concern left me with mixed feelings. Even a stranger could see something was wrong with me, but he remained blind to it.

At eleven at night, I sat alone in my room, facing the search results on my computer screen.

"Late-stage pancreatic cancer: 6-month survival rate less than 10%"

This cold statistic was like a death sentence, pronouncing my doom.

Mom died this way too... In her final months, she was skin and bones, lacking even the strength to speak. And I would become like that too.

I tremblingly deleted the browsing history as Bradley and Madison's laughter drifted up from downstairs. They talked about work, about the future, about a life I could never be part of.

At least he was happy.

I smiled bitterly as I closed the computer, a decision forming in my heart: I couldn't destroy this.

Six months, maybe less. I would use this remaining time to quietly disappear from his world, leaving no burden or guilt behind.

I didn't want him to feel fake guilt after my death, didn't want him to feel sorry for me. This was better for everyone.

Let me leave quietly with this love, all by myself.

The moonlight outside was cold as water, shining on my pale face. Tomorrow would bring the second chemo session. I had to become stronger, better at pretending.

After all, this secret could only rot in my heart.