Chapter 8
Jessica froze in place, that icy, mocking voice piercing her already shattered heart like a steel needle finding its mark with surgical precision.
She didn't even turn around. She simply lowered her gaze and continued issuing instructions to her assistant, her voice flat and emotionless, as if the man behind her were nothing but empty air.
Stanley's anger flared hotter. This woman—she dared to ignore him?
Lydia quickly stepped forward, looping her arm through his with practiced ease. Her voice dripped with sugary concern as she played the peacemaker. "Stanley, don't be so harsh on her. Jessica's just doing her job. Look how pale she is—she must be exhausted. Don't hold it against her."
The words sounded considerate on the surface, but they subtly reframed Jessica's professionalism and dedication as nothing more than a desperate attempt to make amends after throwing a tantrum.
Jessica paid no attention. She efficiently wrapped up all remaining tasks before finally turning around—her gaze sliding past Stanley to land on Lydia behind him.
"Ms. Moore," she said, wearing the standard smile of a seasoned PR director—distant and courteous. "The reporters outside have been handled. To avoid any further incidents, I've arranged a car to take you out through the underground garage."
Stanley stared at her eerily calm, detached expression. The nameless fury inside him burned even fiercer.
This cold, impenetrable professionalism of hers—this refusal to react—irritated him more than any hysterical outburst ever could.
He let out a derisive snort, wrapped his arm around Lydia's waist, and turned to leave without sparing Jessica another glance.
Lydia let him guide her a few steps before glancing back, her smile laced with the smug satisfaction of a victor. She opened her mouth, ready to deliver one more barb.
But before she could speak, Jessica had already turned to her assistant with a slight nod. "Joe, please escort Ms. Moore to her car."
The gesture was dismissive—as if she were merely brushing aside someone utterly irrelevant.
Lydia's smile froze for a split second. In the end, she could only swallow her frustration and follow Stanley's retreating figure.
As the crowd dispersed and the chaos subsided, the adrenaline that had kept Jessica upright drained away in an instant. Crushing exhaustion and searing pain crashed over her like a tidal wave.
'Had enough of the act yet?'
Stanley's words echoed in her mind like a curse she couldn't shake.
'Yes,' she thought bitterly. 'I've been acting all along.'
'Acting like I don't care. Acting like I'm strong. Acting like… I still have time.'
A sharp, familiar pain lanced through her stomach—more vicious than ever before.
Cold sweat soaked through her blouse. Her vision swam with black spots. She braced herself against the wall, her legs barely holding her weight.
She knew what this meant. The cancer was progressing.
Forcing herself to move, she staggered back to her office and locked the door behind her. With trembling hands, she reached into the innermost compartment of her bag and pulled out a small white pill bottle.
No label. Just a handful of white tablets inside.
These were high-strength painkillers she'd had smuggled in from overseas. The side effects were severe. Chris had explicitly forbidden her from taking them, warning that they would accelerate her body's deterioration.
But right now, she didn't care.
Compared to death, this endless torment was far more terrifying.
She didn't even bother getting water. She dry-swallowed two pills, the bitter taste spreading across her tongue like the bitterness of her life itself.
The medication kicked in quickly, forcibly suppressing the agony. But it was immediately followed by waves of nausea and dizziness.
She collapsed over her desk, gasping for air like a fish out of water, waiting for the worst of the side effects to pass.
The next day, Jessica went to the hospital anyway.
She didn't tell Chris she'd taken the forbidden medication—she simply said it was a routine follow-up. While waiting for her test results, she wandered alone into the hospital's garden.
The early autumn sunlight filtered through the leaves, carrying a faint chill. Jessica found a bench and sat down, her face deathly pale.
Then, not far away, a familiar tall figure made her heart stop cold.
Stanley.
He stood with his back to her, speaking into his phone. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried clearly to her ears.
"That's just how she is. She's been pulling this act since we were kids—playing the victim to get sympathy. Remember that time in high school? She claimed she was being bullied, came crying to me—and I was in the hospital with a perforated ulcer at the time. I still dragged myself out of bed to deal with it for her. Looking back now, she was just exaggerating to get my attention."
Jessica's blood turned to ice.
That memory—it was the darkest chapter of her adolescence. Locked in a bathroom stall by classmates. Drenched in cold water. Her textbooks torn to shreds.
And Stanley had descended like an avenging angel and pulled her out of that hell.
It was the most reckless, selfless thing he'd ever done for her.
But now, in a conversation she was never meant to hear, he dismissed it all with casual mockery—rewriting both her trauma and his own sacrifice as nothing more than a manipulative ploy for attention.
So even the memories were lies.
What she'd believed was salvation—he saw as nothing but an inconvenient burden.
Her heart felt like it was being crushed in an icy fist, ground into dust so fine that not a single intact piece remained.
Bitterness rose from the pit of her stomach to her throat, threatening to choke her.
She couldn't stay here. She staggered to her feet, desperate to escape this suffocating place.
Her foot caught on a dry twig. The faint snap echoed louder than it should have.
Stanley whipped around, his sharp gaze locking onto her instantly.
For a fleeting moment, surprise flickered in his eyes—then it hardened into cold annoyance.
He glanced at her with indifferent disdain, then turned back to his call as if she were nothing more than an eyesore in his peripheral vision.
Indifference was a weapon sharper than any blade.
Jessica's lips twisted into a bitter, self-mocking smile. She turned and walked away, every step heavier than the last.
She'd barely gone two paces when she collided with someone emerging from the outpatient building.
Lydia.
Lydia's eyes widened in surprise, then immediately softened into that familiar, saccharine smile. "Jessica? What a coincidence! Are you here for a checkup? Is something wrong?"
Jessica didn't have the energy to even pretend politeness. She moved to step around her—but her gaze involuntarily dropped to the folder Lydia was clutching against her chest.
The bold print on the top sheet was impossible to miss.
Prenatal Examination Report.
Those words seared themselves onto Jessica's retinas like a red-hot brand.
The world stopped. All sound drained away, leaving only the frantic pounding of her own heartbeat and the roar of blood rushing to her head.
'Pregnant?'
'Lydia is carrying Stanley's child?'
Suddenly, everything made sense. The ring. His protectiveness. His dismissal of her pain as melodrama.
He was clearing the path for the woman he loved—and for the child they were bringing into the world.
And Jessica? She was just an obstacle. Disposable. Inconvenient.
'So is was it.'
Chemotherapy wasn't the most painful thing. His rejection wasn't the most painful thing.
The most excruciating pain of all was realizing that even the memories she'd treasured—those moments she'd believed were her salvation—had been nothing but a one-sided delusion.
What she thought was rescue had only ever been a teenage whim.
What she thought was love had only ever been an inconvenient burden in his eyes.
Her heart—what was left of it—finally, irrevocably died.
