The sharp smell of rubbing alcohol dragged me out of the darkness.
I blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights above me. My head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, and a sharp pain radiated from my right side.
"Ms. Rossi? Can you hear me?"
A man in a white coat stood at the foot of my bed, holding a clipboard.
"Where am I?" I croaked, my throat dry as sandpaper.
"City General Hospital," the doctor said. "You were brought in last night after a traffic collision. You have two fractured ribs and a minor concussion."
I shifted my weight, wincing as the pain flared in my chest. The memories rushed back. The hotel room. The wet sounds of David thrusting into Abby. The blinding headlights in the intersection.
"I want to go home," I said.
"You can't," he replied, his tone shifting. He stepped closer, his expression tightening into a grim line. "The injuries from the accident are manageable. But your routine bloodwork revealed something else."
"Something else?" I asked.
"Your white blood cell count is critically abnormal," he explained. "We ran further tests while you were unconscious. Ms. Rossi, you have acute leukemia."
The words hung in the sterile air.
"That's a mistake," I said.
"It isn't," he insisted. "The disease is progressing rapidly. You need a bone marrow transplant immediately. Without it, your internal organs will begin to fail. You are in very real danger of losing your life."
"How long do I have?"
"Weeks," he answered. "Maybe less if we don't start aggressive treatment today."
He handed me a thick manila folder. The diagnosis was printed in bold black ink across the top page.
I didn't cry. I didn't scream. My entire world had already been ripped apart twelve hours ago in room 314. This was just the final nail in the coffin.
"I need to go," I said, swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress.
"You are in no condition to leave!" the doctor argued.
"Watch me."
I ignored his protests, signed the discharge papers against medical advice, and walked out of the sliding glass doors.
The morning sun felt entirely too bright. I clutched the manila folder to my chest, my fractured ribs screaming with every step I took toward my apartment building. My fiancé had betrayed me, and my body was quietly killing me.
I pushed my front door open, expecting an empty apartment.
David sat on the velvet sofa, his head buried in his hands.
He shot to his feet the second the door clicked shut. His clothes were wrinkled, the same shirt he had worn to the hotel yesterday.
"Bianca!" he shouted, rushing across the living room. "Where the hell have you been? I called the police! I checked every friend's house!"
"Stay away from me," I warned, holding my free hand up.
David stopped in his tracks. He looked at my bruised face, then down at the hospital bracelet still wrapped around my wrist.
"You're hurt," he observed, his voice dropping. "What happened to you?"
"I got hit by a car running away from your cheating," I stated flatly.
"My god, Bianca, I am so sorry," he said, taking another step forward. "Let me help you sit down."
"If you touch me, I will scream until the neighbors call the cops."
David swallowed hard. He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Please, just let me explain. You have to understand why I did it."
"You tripped and your pants fell off?" I asked.
"Abby is dying," he blurted out.
The silence in the room became absolute. I gripped the edge of the folder tighter, the paper crinkling under my knuckles.
"What?" I asked.
"She has terminal cancer," David continued, his words spilling out in a desperate rush. "She moved back from Paris because the doctors there told her there was nothing left to do. She has maybe two months left."
"And her dying wish was to fuck an engaged man?"
"She was terrified!" David yelled, his face flushing red. "She reached out to me because I was her first love. She didn't want to die alone. I felt sorry for her, Bianca. I just wanted to give her some comfort in her final days."
"Comfort?" I let out a dry, bitter laugh. "You were raw-dogging her on the mattress I paid for. That's your version of palliative care?"
"It meant nothing!" he insisted. "It was just physical. She needed to feel alive, and I couldn't say no to a dying woman."
"I heard her crying in the hallway, David. She said you promised to break things off with me."
"I lied to her!" he defended, throwing his arms wide. "I told her whatever she needed to hear to keep her calm. I love you. You are the woman I am going to marry."
The audacity of his words made my stomach churn.
"You slept with her out of pity," I summarized.
"Yes," he agreed quickly, nodding his head. "Exactly. It was an act of mercy. Once she passes away, it will be over. We can move on. I will give you the most massive, beautiful wedding you've ever seen. We'll go to Italy for our honeymoon, just like we planned."
He actually believed he was the hero of this story. He thought his infidelity was a noble sacrifice.
My chest burned. The pain of my fractured ribs was nothing compared to the venom flooding my veins.
"You are disgusting," I whispered.
"I'm practical," he countered. "I'm dealing with a tragedy the best way I can. You need to be more understanding."
I looked down at the manila folder in my hands. The heavy black letters of my own death sentence pressed against my palms. Acute leukemia. Weeks to live.
I lifted my chin and locked my eyes onto his.
"What if it was me?" I asked.
David frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"If I were the one sick," I pushed, my voice trembling with suppressed fury. "If my organs were failing. If I only had weeks to live. Would you still be in that hotel room comforting her?"
"That's a ridiculous hypothetical," he deflected, looking away toward the window.
"Answer the question, David. If the doctor told me I was going to die this month, would you have left my side to go fuck your high school sweetheart?"
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His jaw worked silently. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unable to meet my gaze.
The hesitation was all the answer I needed.
Before I could tear into him again, a sharp ringing shattered the quiet.
David jumped. He pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen lit up with a hospital number.
He swiped the screen and brought the speaker to his ear. "Hello?"
A woman's panicked voice leaked through the receiver. "Mr. Miller? It's the oncology ward. Abby's condition just crashed. She's in emergency resuscitation right now."
David's face drained of all color.
"I'm on my way," he said.
He shoved the phone back into his pocket and sprinted toward the door. He didn't look at me. He didn't ask about my injuries again. He just grabbed his keys from the bowl and bolted out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.
The lock clicked into place.
I stood alone in the center of the living room.
My fingers went numb. I slowly opened my hands.
The hospital folder slipped through my grip. It hit the hardwood floor, the white pages fanning out across the rug, displaying my test results for an empty room to see.
A single tear carved a hot path down my cheek.
If I only had a few weeks left on this earth, was I really going to spend them crying over a man who left me to die?
