Chapter 2

My fingers clenched so tight my nails bit into my palms.

"Where am I supposed to stay?"

"There are empty rooms downstairs."

He said it as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

Vivian’s eyes immediately turned red. "Julian, please, don't," she pleaded softly.

"I’m happy with the guest room. Nora has cared for you for five years. That room must mean a lot to her."

Julian’s scowl deepened.

"Nora, did you hear that? Vivian is sick, yet she’s still defending you."

Looking at him, an urge to laugh welled up in my throat.

I hadn't screamed. I hadn't cried. I hadn't spoken a single harsh word.

Yet in his eyes, I had already become the petty villain who needed someone else's mercy.

"I'll pack."

I turned and walked up the staircase.

Pushing open the master bedroom door, the white magnolias outside the balcony window were in full bloom.

During those five years when he lived in total darkness, I described them to him every single day.

"Julian, three blossoms opened today."

"Julian, the wind is strong today; the petals are scattered across the grass."

"Julian, when you get your sight back, I promise I'll bring you out here to see them."

I pulled open the bedside drawer. Inside lay his old medication bottles, his sleep masks, his massage oils, and a dog-eared caregiver’s handbook whose pages were worn soft.

The only things that belonged to me were a framed photograph of my late grandmother, a few faded blouses, and a thin diary.

That evening, I moved my things into a cramped utility room downstairs.

The room was narrow and damp, with a tiny window facing the dark concrete wall of the backyard.

The maid felt terrible for me and whispered if I wanted an extra blanket.

I shook my head. "No need."

The next morning, I went to the oncology clinic to pick up my test results.

The specialist stared at my scans, his expression grim.

"Mrs. Vance, you need to be admitted immediately. The cancer has aggressively relapsed and metastasized. It’s significantly worse than before."

I asked calmly, "If I don't get admitted, how long do I have left?"

A heavy silence settled over the room.

"At best? One month. Perhaps even less."

I glanced down at the terminal diagnosis sheet, completely unsurprised.

Over the past five years, my body had broken down piece by piece.

During the first year of Julian’s blindness, he spent nights hurling insults and throwing furniture.

Terrified that he would hurt himself, I hardly dared to close my eyes.

In the second year, his ocular pressure spiked dangerously. An overseas specialist suddenly canceled a consultation, and I stood in the freezing rain outside the expert's hotel for seven hours begging for an appointment.

In the third year, when his initial rehab failed, he locked himself in his study, refusing to eat or drink. Sick with worry, I threw up blood three times in a single night—yet I hid every trace from him.

Because back then, he was the broken one. He was the patient.

I kept telling myself: *Just hold on a little longer. Just keep him alive.*

Now, his sight was finally back. But my strength was finally gone.

The doctor asked, "Where is your family?"

I paused, then offered a small, quiet smile. "I don't have any family."

The doctor frowned. "Your medical chart lists you as married."

I folded the terminal report and slipped it into my purse.

"I won't be for much longer."

After leaving the hospital, I didn't return to the estate. Instead, I took a cab to a downtown law firm.

The attorney, Eleanor Hughes, was an old friend of my late grandmother.

When she saw the medical papers and the bank records I handed her, tears instantly welled in her eyes.

"Nora... did you spend every last cent of your money on Julian Vance?"

I nodded.

When Julian was healthy, he was the untouchable heir to the Vance empire.

Once he went blind and lost his utility, his family tossed him aside like trash.

His personal funds dried up within the first six months of experimental treatments.

When the Vance family refused to wire a dime, I had to come up with everything myself.

"You sold your grandmother's house, too?"

"Yes."

"Does he know?"

I stayed silent.

Eleanor closed her eyes, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "So you came to me today to sue him and recover the funds?"

I shook my head.

"I want you to draft a divorce agreement."

She gasped.

I kept my voice low. "Don't let Julian know. I’ll leave it behind when I go."

Eleanor stared at me for a long time.

"What do you want from him?"

I thought for a moment. "Just my personal belongings. When we divorce, I’m entitled to a division of marital assets. Please take whatever settlement I receive and donate it all to the Blind Rehabilitation Foundation and a terminal illness relief fund."

"And what about you?"

I looked out the window at the gray sky. "I won't have any use for money anymore."

Eleanor’s voice broke. "Nora, let me help you find the money for your chemotherapy—"

I gently shook my head.

It wasn't about money anymore. It was simply too late.

As I stepped out of the office, my phone vibrated in my hand. It was Julian.

"Vivian wants some of that warm pumpkin soup you used to make for me. Get back here right now."