"Her only wish before she dies is to be my wife."
Daniela said nothing. A dead silence fell over the spacious master bedroom.
The lamp on the nightstand cast a faint glow, stretching their shadows long against the wall. They lay so close, yet their silhouettes looked miles apart.
When she didn't immediately respond, a frown flickered across his face.
"We're just humoring her. We can remarry in six months. Daniela, she only has six months."
His tone remained even, as if he were merely delivering a notice.
Daniela stared blankly at his profile.
He spoke as if she had no choice but to agree to every demand he made, as if his every word was a command she was bound to obey.
Yes. This relationship-what they had-she'd been the one chasing him. Desperately. Pathetically.
It had begun as simple teenage admiration.
And it had followed her into adulthood, a shadow always trailing behind him.
There was that storm years ago, when he had stepped in front of her, gripping a piece of rotting wood to ward off her stepfather. "If you ever lay a hand on Daniela again, I'll end you!"
She'd been beaten half to death. Through a blur of torrential rain and her own blood, all she could see were his hands-knuckles white around the wood-and his eyes, cold and unyielding in the storm.
He had saved her life.
Helplessly, irrevocably, she had fallen for him.
Whatever he asked of her, she did. She poured everything she had into it, more than anyone else could.
And afterward, he would rest a hand on her head, his touch fleeting, and murmur, "Good girl, Daniela."
Even though his words and kisses were always fleeting, and their entire relationship had been lukewarm at best, she had convinced herself it was simply his nature.
So even when the world called her a pathetic doormat, she had accepted the label, savoring the bitterness.
For seven years, her entire youth, she had followed him.
A year ago, William's grandfather had fallen gravely ill. To fulfill his wish, the family decided a marriage was needed.
He'd come to her, and simply took her to register their marriage.
She had thought all those years of devotion had finally paid off. But after the registration, he held her at arm's length. Worse, she could feel it-a growing weariness in his eyes whenever he looked at her.
"Daniela. Are you listening to me?"
Noticing her distraction, he scowled.
"Does it have to be this way?" she asked, her voice small.
He ignored the question. "She's pitiful, Daniela."
"What about me?" The words slipped out before she could stop them.
In the silence that followed, a flicker of impatience crossed his eyes.
He let three seconds pass before he spoke again.
"Daniela, she's dying. You might not know this, but she loves me. And because of our marriage, she never wanted to hurt you. We never crossed any lines. Even when I tried to give her things, she always refused. She's a kind person. Just let her have this. Daniela, don't make me see you as cruel."
His voice was impossibly cold, each word a shard of ice in her heart.
So that was kindness-getting involved with a married man and uttering a few hypocritical words.
And this was cruelty-a wife refusing to give up her own husband.
She looked at his face. It was exactly the same as it had been all those years ago.
The deep-set eyes, the straight nose, the chiseled jaw, those firm lips.
When had he started to change?
Probably the day "she" appeared.
"Are you sure about this divorce?" she asked one last time.
He didn't answer. His mouth pressed into a thin, hard line.
Finally, his lips parted.
"Yes. You-"
"Fine."
Before he could go on, she agreed.
He froze for a second.
His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her.
"You're getting cunning, Daniela." A rare trace of anger crept into his tone. "You figured I needed your agreement, so now you're threatening me?"
Daniela said nothing, her gaze drifting back to the two shadows on the pale wall.
William stubbed out his cigarette, dressed with quick, jerky movements, and strode out of the room without a backward glance.
As if her feelings didn't matter in the slightest. As if the sheer humiliation of his request was nothing.
Because he knew she wouldn't leave him.
It had always been that way.
Slam!
William was gone.
Daniela was left alone in the bedroom.
She stared at the door he'd slammed behind him.
She sat by the bed for a long, long time.
Buzz.
A notification.
Someone had sent her a message.
She reached for her phone.
The contact saved as "That Girl" had sent her a message.
"He came to see me again."
Attached was a photo, his profile reflected in the glass of an entryway.
He was smiling warmly, his eyes soft with a tenderness she had never once seen directed at her.
Daniela's finger paused. Then, with a strange detachment, she scrolled up.
The previous message read, "He told me he has feelings for me."
Before that was, "Is it cold on rainy nights? I'm not cold, because he is by my side."
The one before that was a lash of pure venom. "The one who isn't loved is the real intruder. Daniela, you were just his desperate choice for a marriage of convenience. He admires my taste, shares my values. I'm the one he loves."
There were so many messages like these.
Each one was another drop of poison, irrefutable proof of his betrayal.
She never knew. In seven years, William had always been so distant with her. She never knew that with someone else... he could be so alive.
She wasn't really reading. She just mechanically scrolled up and up, until she finally reached the very first message. "You should know who I am. Did you like the flowers in your living room today? I sent them. He said they were beautiful."
A hollow laugh escaped her.
Of course, she knew who it was.
Valerie Campbell. A celebrated floral designer and influencer, famous on social media for her work in Cresthaven's most luxurious penthouses and villas.
Daniela had shown him these messages before, but he'd dismissed them. He insisted there was no real proof they came from Valerie.
He'd even suggested she might have made it up herself, just to frame Valerie.
After all, the chat rarely included photos. And when it did, they were always the kind anyone could have taken from a distance.
Except for today's.
Should she show him this?
Tossing her phone aside, Daniela reached into the bottom drawer of the nightstand and pulled out a folded document.
She opened it to reveal the test results she had received just that day.
She was carrying William's child.
At the worst possible time.
A tear slipped down her cheek and splashed onto the paper, the moisture bleeding through the ink, blurring the words.
His heart no longer belonged to her. What good would proving her innocence do?
She wiped her tears away.
Daniela picked up the lighter William had used and touched the flame to the edge of the paper.
He didn't know it, but this divorce would be the very last request of his she would ever grant.
Seven years of her youth. Seven years of her life.
She had repaid his kindness. In full.
And she... she would stop loving him now.
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