The sun rose like nothing had happened.
Like I hadn't coughed blood at 2 a.m.
Like I hadn't prayed on cold tiles for breath.
Like my chest wasn't cracking beneath my ribs.
I stood in front of the mirror, applying foundation over the faint bruises beneath my eyes…purple, hollow, sleepless. I pressed powder over my cheekbones, touched blush to my face until I looked less ghost and more porcelain doll.
Then I slipped the little white pills into the pocket of my dress.
Three.
One for the pain.
One for the lungs.
One to trick my heart into staying quiet.
In the breakfast room, Alessandro was already seated.
He didn't glance at me when I walked in.
Just flipped the page of his medical journal, sipped his coffee, and muttered, "You're late."
"I had trouble sleeping."
"You've had trouble adjusting to everything."
I poured myself tea.
My hand trembled slightly.
He noticed.
"You should eat more."
"I have been."
He glanced up.
Briefly.
Eyes flicked to the plate, to my fingers, to the way I touched my stomach like it ached.
Then…dismissal.
"If you faint in public, don't expect me to catch you."
"I wouldn't expect you to catch anyone," I murmured.
"What was that?"
"Nothing."
Later that day, I sat in the greenhouse with a medical folder on my lap.
Not his hospital's.
Mine.
The records I smuggled from my last appointment in Moscow before the wedding.
I flipped through the pages slowly. Lungs deteriorating. Heart irregularities. Scar tissue from early infections. A time bomb wrapped in skin and silence.
Life expectancy: 3–6 months. With stress, possibly less.
I tore that page out and burned it in a small glass bowl on the floor.
Then popped the next pill dry.
My fingers trembled.
So I sat still and whispered to the roses:
"I won't die until he sees what he's done."
"You missed your bloodwork again," Leon Hartmann said softly.
I sat across from him in his private office at the clinic. one he quietly kept open to patients who couldn't afford elite care. It was the only place I felt human. The only place I wasn't her…the wife, the joke, the walking shadow behind Moretti's reputation.
"I've been… occupied," I said.
Leon narrowed his eyes. "You're running out of margin, Ana. You can't keep hiding this from him. He's your…"
"He doesn't care."
"He's a doctor."
"He's not my doctor."
He sighed and passed me a water bottle. "And the fevers?"
"Every other night."
"Coughing?"
I nodded. "Sometimes blood."
Leon's jaw tightened. "And you still haven't told him?"
I said nothing.
"Why?"
"Because if he finds out now, he'll think I planned it. Like the sick little wife who tricked him into marrying her."
"He'll blame you."
"He always does."
Leon leaned forward. "I can admit you tonight."
"No."
"Ana…"
"I said no."
My voice cracked.
I didn't mean for it to.
Leon sat back slowly. "How long?"
"Three pills a day," I whispered. "Sometimes four, if I'm bleeding."
He looked like he wanted to hit something.
"Does he even know you're on medication?"
"He thinks I have migraines."
"Ana…"
"I'm not dying until I'm done."
Leon stared at me.
"You're going to make him regret it, aren't you?"
I smiled, tired and trembling. "Every breath I have left."
When I got back to the villa, Alessandro was in the study.
I walked past the door quietly, my steps light.
But his voice cut through the silence like a whip.
"Where were you?"
I paused.
"Out."
"Where?"
"Does it matter?"
He stepped out of the study, sleeves rolled up, tie hanging loose. "You leave the house like it belongs to you. It doesn't."
I met his gaze.
"Neither do I."
He stopped.
I kept walking.
And as I climbed the stairs, I reached into my pocket and felt the shape of the pill bottle beneath the silk.
He didn't see.
He never did.
And I didn't care.
That night, I waited until the hallway was dark before slipping into the guest bathroom.
Not mine. Not his. The one no one ever used.
I sat on the closed toilet lid with the medicine case open on my lap…vials, pills, a single needle tucked in velvet like it mattered. I filled the syringe with practiced fingers. I had done this long before marriage.
The injection burned slightly as it entered the vein in my thigh.
I didn't wince.
Pain was familiar.
Predictable.
I leaned my head back against the tiled wall, whispering to the silence.
"Four months. Maybe three. That's all I need."
The door creaked.
I froze.
Footsteps passed by.
Stopped.
Silence.
Then walked away.
I didn't breathe until I heard his bedroom door shut.
The next morning, I collapsed.
It happened outside.
In the courtyard.
I was pruning one of Claudia's rose bushes…her latest punishment order..when the sunlight blurred. My fingers went numb. My knees buckled without warning.
I hit the gravel hard.
The staff ran to me.
"She's fainted!"
"Get the doctor…"
"No," I gasped, grabbing the maid's arm. "No doctor."
"Madam…"
"Please."
I couldn't let him know.
Not yet.
Not until he broke first.
They helped me inside. I barely made it to my room.
Later, I found a bottle of water placed beside my bed.
And a note.
Written in cold, blocky handwriting.
"Eat something. The staff says you skipped dinner. Again."
– A
No apology.
No concern.
Just an order.
I took the pills with water and lay back in the sheets, sweat clinging to my skin like regret.
My chest ached. My vision dimmed.
But I smiled.
Because even if I died tomorrow, today I knew something new.
He was starting to notice.
Later that night, the rain started.
Soft at first.
Then harder…angrier, like the sky had finally run out of patience.
I sat by the window, curled into a blanket on the floor, watching lightning lick the edge of the distant hills. I counted the seconds between thunder.
One.
Two.
Three.
My heart didn't beat right. It skipped like it was drunk or bored or tired of trying.
I reached under the couch cushion and pulled out the black notebook I kept hidden from everyone. Not the doctor's reports. Not the prescriptions.
This was mine.
I flipped to a blank page and scribbled something in fast, sharp strokes.
"When I die, don't bury me in his name.
Don't write 'beloved wife.'
Write 'survivor.'
Even if I didn't survive."
My hand trembled.
The pen slipped.
I dropped it and curled into the blanket, clutching it to my chest like a shield. I could hear his footsteps overhead…slow, steady, pacing like he couldn't sleep again.
I wondered if his nightmares had started yet.
If my face had begun to show up in them.
If he heard me coughing in his dreams.
I closed my eyes and imagined waking up somewhere else…anywhere else. In a tiny apartment with no marble floors, no designer curtains. Just silence. Just space. Just air that didn't belong to someone who hated me.
A knock at the door broke the moment.
I didn't answer.
Another knock. Then silence.
A piece of paper slid under the door.
I crawled toward it and unfolded it.
It was his handwriting again. Rough, angular, like he carved the letters with pressure instead of ink.
"Your fever's back. I told Emilia to bring soup.
Don't be dramatic. Eat it."
I stared at the note for a long time.
Then I ripped it in half.
And crawled back under the blanket.
Let him worry in the dark.
Let him pretend he didn't care while listening for every cough that followed.
Let him fall apart without ever realizing why.