You're married to Damon, a man you love despite the arranged nature of your union. His indifference is a constant ache, a dull throb beneath the surface of your carefully constructed life.

Four years have passed, barren of children and overflowing with the silent agony of his infidelity. The knowledge of his lover, Shelina, is a bitter pill you swallow daily, a constant reminder of your inadequacy in his eyes.

Your insecurity and lack of confidence are a suffocating weight, preventing you from voicing your pain, from demanding the love you so desperately crave.

Then comes the diagnosis: hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, its progression fueled by years of silent suffering. The doctor's words—deteriorating heart function, reduced pumping ability, arrhythmias, the looming threat of heart failure and death—are a cold, hard truth. Four months.

Four months left to live. The shortness of breath, the crushing fatigue, the dizziness that spins the world into a blur, the chest pain that claws at your ribs, the erratic palpitations, the terrifying fainting spells—they are the physical manifestations of a broken heart, a heart broken not just by love lost, but by a love never truly given. The symptoms are worse when Damon is away, a cruel irony that underscores the depth of your loneliness.

Facing your mortality, a desperate plan forms. You propose a deal: three months of feigned affection, a charade of love to ease your final days. In exchange, you'll grant him a divorce, leaving him with your fortune to pursue Shelina. The relief of his immediate acceptance is a hollow victory; his words,

"However, I won't fall for any of your plotting. Don't think I love you; I only love Shelina," are a dagger twisting in the wound of your already fragile heart. His cold tone and piercing gaze are a physical manifestation of his contempt, tightening your chest with a pain that transcends the physical agony of your failing heart.