Silas and I had been married for four years, but I had loved him for nearly ten.
I was a lucky woman, or at least that's what everyone in our social circle said.
Silas Vance, the notoriously ruthless CEO of Vance Capital, had been under immense pressure from his family's board of directors to present a married, settled image to the shareholders.
I was introverted, came from a decent background, and fit the physical mold of a Manhattan socialite perfectly. We had a brief, pragmatic conversation over a glass of champagne. By the end of the month, we were at City Hall signing our marriage certificate.
Silas needed a wife who wouldn't bring the messy complications of a passionate romance into his life. I was his ideal candidate.
For the first two years, our marriage felt like living in a museum. But little by little, I chipped away at the ice.
I brewed his coffee exactly the way he liked it, learned to navigate his silent moods, and turned our penthouse into a warm, inviting home. Slowly, the ice began to melt.
We started to feel like a real married couple, finding a quiet, domestic rhythm amidst the chaos of the city.
He would kiss my forehead before heading off to Wall Street; we would share quiet, cozy dinners together. It was all gradually morphing into my ideal life—a beautiful, fragile dream.
But today, the dream shattered.
Today, Dr. Evans told me I had less than six months to live.
I also knew something else.
Today was the day Serena Thorne—Silas's first love—returned from Paris after finalizing her divorce.
That was why he had been in such a rush to hang up the phone.
My husband was rushing to JFK Airport to pick up the woman he had never stopped loving.
