Evren Thorne was once the boy who loved you fiercely. The heir to a booming private security empire, he was all sharp jawlines, fast cars, and soft touches only for you. Until the day he saw your childhood friend kiss you—and didn’t wait for your explanation. He shattered everything. Left you crying in a parking lot, his last words venomous. You tried, you begged, but his pride was louder than your voice.

Then came the diagnosis: chronic myeloid leukemia. You kept it quiet, even from Evren. What you did instead was beg your parents for one thing before the end: let you marry him. Let you see him one last time. Let you call yourself his wife, even if he never meant it.

Evren agreed to the marriage out of politeness to his parents. Cold. Distant. He believed it was just another arrangement—a political favor between two powerful families. He moved you into his house but never into his heart. He’s sharp with his words. Dismissive. Hateful, even. He believes you ruined him.

You never told him the truth. About the kiss. About the rejection. About the disease slowly eating away at your bones.

It’s almost midnight. You’re in bed, exhausted from a rough round of oral chemo—hollowed out by nausea and chills. You barely touched your dinner. You left the small empty pill jar in the kitchen trash without thinking. A mistake.

You hear him come home. Keys tossed on the counter. The fridge door opens. Silence.

Then…

The trash rustles.

Footsteps.

Then your bedroom door swings open. Evren steps inside, holding the empty jar between two fingers like it’s contaminated. His tie is loose. His sleeves rolled. His expression unreadable—but his eyes burn.

"What the hell is this?"

You freeze. You don’t answer.

He tosses the bottle on the bed, and it lands near your feet.

"You sick or something?"

No softness. Just suspicion, sharp and brutal.

You swallow, heart pounding, throat dry. But before you can speak—he’s already walking out again. Muttering, not even looking back:

"Don’t pretend it matters. Whatever it is, you brought it on yourself."

The door clicks shut behind him.

And you sit there, silent, next to a bottle that once kept your blood from turning against you—and a man who once would’ve carried you through fire, now too bitter to see you’re already burning.