The Billionaire's Regret: His Dying Wife

Today was Cecilia Thorne’s birthday.

She had three months to live.

No one had wished her happy birthday. Not that she’d expected them to. Least of all the man who was currently watching her drown with the detached interest of a scientist observing a specimen.

“Rufus, please… give me something for the pain. I can’t take it anymore.”

Her voice barely held. Her body had finally reached its limit—whether from months of testing Blair Ember’s experimental drugs or the toxic cocktail currently shredding her insides, she no longer knew. All she knew was that every nerve ending was on fire, and the man she loved was looking at her like she was asking for an undeserved favor.

Rufus Chapman’s lips curved. It was not a smile.

“You want relief? I’ll give it to you.”

Hope flickered across her face—brief, foolish, immediately punished.

He yanked the coat from her shoulders and pushed her onto the bed, his body a cage she had no strength to escape.

“Rufus—” Her palms pressed weakly against his chest. “I’m in real pain. Please. Just not tonight.”

Tonight. As if she had any say in any of it.

He caught her wrists, pinned them above her head. His eyes were glacial.

“Don’t pretend. Your mouth says no, but your body’s always been honest. When you drugged me and crawled into my bed on our wedding night, wasn’t this exactly what you wanted?”

Her breath caught. She wanted to say I did that because I loved you. She wanted to say I was nineteen and desperate and you were the only beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

She wanted to say I didn’t know then that love could be a debt I’d never stop paying.

But his mouth was already on hers, hard and merciless, stealing the words before they could form.

She didn’t fight. She’d learned that fighting only prolonged it.

When it was over, she lay motionless against the sheets, hollowed out. The physical pain had receded to a dull throb. The other kind—the kind that lived in her chest, beneath her ribs—never went away.

The bathroom faucet ran. Stopped.

Rufus emerged, opened the nightstand drawer, and placed two white pills on the bedside table.

“Take them.”

Her throat closed. “Can we… skip it today? Just once. I promise I won’t get pregnant. I’m already in so much pain—”

His gaze sharpened. “Planning to get pregnant so you can stop testing for Blair?”

She flinched.

I wasn’t planning anything, she wanted to say. I was just hoping, for once, that you might see me.

But she didn’t say it. She never said it.

She swallowed the pills dry. They scraped all the way down.

Twenty minutes later, she was on the bathroom floor, retching blood into the porcelain bowl.

It came out in thick, dark ribbons, and with each convulsion she felt something inside her tear a little more. Her abdomen twisted, a blade rotating slowly between her hips. She gripped the edge of the sink, pulled herself upright, and stared at her reflection.

Same face. Same hollow eyes. Same woman who kept waiting for a love that would never come.

When she walked back into the bedroom, Rufus was on the phone.

His voice had changed. Softened. The ice in his eyes had melted.

“Not feeling well? I’ll be right there.”

Blair.

Only Blair.

He hung up and walked past Cecilia without a glance. Didn’t see her standing there, pale as paper, blood still wet on her lower lip. Didn’t hear her whisper his name.

The door closed behind him.

She stood alone in the silence. The clock on the wall ticked past midnight.

Her birthday was over.

The Ember Mansion was drowning in roses.

Cecilia stood at the edge of the ballroom, her coat buttoned to the chin, sleeves pulled past her wrists. Beneath the heavy wool, her arms were a constellation of needle marks, her body a battlefield no one had bothered to bury.

At the center of the room, Blair Ember glowed.

She wore a custom headpiece, diamonds catching the chandelier light. Her gown was silk and champagne, her smile effortless. The Ember family orbited her like planets around a sun.

And then Rufus approached.

He carried a velvet box, opened it. Inside, a bracelet set with sapphires, each stone the exact shade of Blair’s eyes.

Cecilia remembered that bracelet. She’d seen it in a jeweler’s window six months ago, paused for two seconds too long, and Rufus had said, It’s not for you.

She’d thought he meant the price.

Now she understood.

“Happy birthday, Blair.” His voice was gentle. Tender, even. A voice Cecilia had never once heard directed at her.

Blair’s face lit up. “It’s the bracelet I’ve always wanted! Rufus, you’re so good to me.”

She threw her arms around his neck. He caught her waist, pulled her close, and pressed his lips to her hair.

Cecilia watched from the shadows.

And then the pain came again.

Not the usual ache. This was different—sharper, lower, a hot tear deep in her abdomen. She looked down.

Blood was seeping through her glove, blooming dark against the gray wool.

She stared at it, uncomprehending. Then her gaze drifted to her clutch, where a sealed envelope lay folded at the bottom. The test results from this morning. The ones she hadn’t opened yet.

The ones she’d been too afraid to read.

Three months, she’d thought.

But three months didn’t bleed like this.

She curled her fingers inward, hiding the stain in her palm. When she looked up, Rufus was fastening the bracelet around Blair’s wrist. His head was bent, his focus absolute. He didn’t look back.

Not once.

Cecilia turned.

Her footsteps were silent on the marble floor. Behind her, Blair’s laughter rang out, bright and careless.

“Rufus, will you always be this good to me?”

A pause. Then his voice, low and sure, carrying across the room:

“Yes.”

Cecilia walked out into the night.

The blood dripped between her fingers, unseen, unmarked.

Like everything else she’d ever given him.