I will die in winter, missing my own spring wedding

"Look at the screen, please," Emily said, dabbing a white handkerchief beneath her eyelashes.

The projector illuminated the board room with enlarged screenshots of text messages. My name was stamped across the sender header.

*If you don't decline the consultant contract, I will make sure your reputation in this city is shredded.*

*Watch your back when you leave the hotel.*

"I didn't send those," I said, slamming my palms against the glass conference table. "Those records are fabricated. Pull the telecom carrier logs right now!"

"We don't need carrier logs to see a pattern of hostile retaliation, Pamela," Arthur, the senior board member, said, adjusting his cuff. "The wire transfers were traced to your account. Now you are harassing external partners?"

Emily let out a small, trembling sob. She looked toward Bob, who sat two chairs down, staring fixedly at his legal pad.

"I only wanted to help the firm raise capital," Emily choked out. "I never imagined Pamela would take my presence so personally. If my being here threatens her, I can pack my things and go back to Boston."

"You aren't going anywhere, Emily," Bob said quietly. He still didn't meet my eyes. "The firm values your contribution."

"Bob, you know she's lying!" I shouted, the strain pulling tight across my chest. "You slept in the same house with me while this allegedly happened! Look at me and tell the board I wrote that garbage!"

Bob kept his head down. "The digital forensic report was signed by an independent contractor. I can't dispute hard data."

"Hard data?" A raw, jagged laugh tore out of my mouth. "She bought your IT director, Bob! Are you blind, or are you just that eager to replace me?"

"That's enough," Arthur barked, tapping a pen against the mahogany table. "Based on the misappropriation of funds and blatant threats against a strategic consultant, the board moves to terminate Pamela’s executive position effective immediately. We are also filing an ethics violation with the industry oversight committee."

I froze. "An ethics filing? That triggers an immediate blacklist across every venture firm on the East Coast."

"Then you should have considered the consequences before sabotaging this company," Arthur said, sliding a termination packet toward me. "Security will escort you to collect your personal items."

Nobody at the table spoke. Five people I had shared celebratory dinners with for five years avoided my gaze.

I didn't sign the paper. I snatched my coat from the back of the chair and walked toward the exit.

In the private corridor leading to the elevators, a hand caught my forearm.

I yanked my arm back. Bob stood there, his tie loosened, a shadow of exhaustion under his eyes.

"Don't touch me," I snapped.

"Keep your voice down," Bob muttered, glancing toward the glass doors behind him. "You made a scene in front of the primary shareholders. Do you realize how difficult you just made things?"

"I made things difficult?" I stared at him, incredulous. "You sat there while she stole my career, my equity, and my name, and your issue is my volume?"

"I couldn't contradict the IT audit without risking the entire funding round," Bob said in a hushed rush. "Listen to me, Pamela. Go home. Wait until the dust settles. Once things are investigated thoroughly, I will help you."

"Help me?" A bitter smirk twisted my lips. "Help me do what, Bob? Give me an allowance out of the money you stole from me?"

"I'm trying to protect you from legal charges!"

"You can't even protect your own fiancée," I said, leaning in so close he flinched. "Who else do you think you can protect?"

His mouth twitched, but no words came out.

The elevator doors chimed open. I stepped inside and pressed the ground floor button. As the doors slid shut, Bob was already turning away, pulling his phone from his pocket.

The elevator dropped thirty-four floors. By the time I walked through the revolving doors into the street, the damp midday chill sliced through my suit jacket.

"Leaving so soon?"

Emily was leaning against the concrete pillar outside the entrance, a lit cigarette pinched between two manicured fingers. She dropped it to the sidewalk and crushed it beneath her pointed shoe.

"Get out of my way, Emily."

"You really fought like a wild animal up there," she said, folding her arms. "Too bad nobody was listening. The industry blacklist went out twenty minutes ago. You couldn't get a job managing a coffee cart in Manhattan."

"Did you really think Bob wouldn't figure out you forged those logs?" I asked, my voice trembling with suppressed fury.

"He already knows," she smiled, stepping closer until I could smell her floral perfume. "That's the funny part, Pamela. Bob isn't stupid. He just doesn't care. He chose my money and my bed over your five years of loyalty."

My throat locked.

Emily reached into her leather bag, pulled out a brass key ring, and dangled it in front of my face. The miniature silver compass charm caught the gray light.

"I moved my luggage into his penthouse this morning," she purred. "He gave me your side of the closet. You should thank me, Pamela. Otherwise, you would have spent the rest of your pathetic life wondering who he truly loves."

"You vile—"

A vicious, blinding spike of agony ripped through the center of my chest.

It wasn't heartbreak. It was a searing, physical tear deep inside my sternum, spreading down into my ribs like crushed glass grinding into bone.

The air vanished from my lungs. My knees buckled.

"Pamela?" Emily took a startled step back, her smirk faltering into disgust. "Don't pretend to faint on the street. Nobody is watching."

I reached out, trying to grab the pillar to hold myself up, but my fingers couldn't find purchase against the smooth concrete. Black spots exploded across my vision. My heart hammered against my ribcage in a wild, irregular rhythm.

*Ninety days,* the doctor's voice echoed in my skull. *Weeks without treatment.*

"I said stop acting," Emily's voice sounded distant, warped like an old tape.

My knees hit the freezing concrete. The contents of my purse spilled across the sidewalk—my keys, my lipstick, and the folded white paper stamped with the red oncology seal.

The world tilted sideways. Cold stone pressed against my cheek.

Then everything went black.

A sleek black Maybach pulled sharply against the curb, its hazard lights clicking on.

In the back seat, Galen adjusted his cuff links, his gray eyes fixed on the commotion through the tinted glass.

"What's the holdup, Vance?" Galen asked, his voice low and smooth.

"Pedestrian collapsed on the sidewalk, sir," the driver replied, shifting into park. "Looks like a woman from the tech firm upstairs. Should I call an ambulance?"

Galen glanced out the window, his gaze dropping to the pavement. A folded sheet of medical paper fluttered in the wind, stopping directly beside the rear tire. The bold red header was clearly visible through the glass: *PHASE IV ATYPICAL BONE MARROW MALIGNANCY — REPLICATION RATE: CRITICAL.*

Galen's expression sharpened.

"Hold on," he commanded.

He pushed the door open, ignoring the misty rain, and stepped out onto the asphalt. He bent down, picked up the report, and scanned the laboratory values with rapid precision.

The genetic marker, the cellular mutation rate, the rare blood profile—it matched every single parameter his family’s private research foundation had spent eight months hunting for.

"Sir?" Vance stepped out behind him, holding an umbrella over his head.

Galen didn't answer immediately. He crouched beside the unconscious woman on the pavement. Her face was deathly pale, dark shadows bruising the skin beneath her eyes. Her fingers were trembling, curling against the cold ground as if fighting to stay tethered to life.

A sharp, unexpected tug seized his chest. He had spent years reading clinical trial reports like balance sheets, detached from the flesh and blood behind the statistics. But looking at her fragile, defiant features crumpled against the dirty street, something pulled hard behind his ribs.

"Run her identity through our database," Galen ordered quietly, his voice dropping into absolute authority. "Check her corporate standing and family background."

"Right away, sir. What about the city emergency services?"

Galen slipped the medical report into his inner coat pocket and scooped Pamela up from the ground, lifting her weight against his chest without hesitation.

"Cancel the city paramedics," Galen said, carrying her toward the open door of the Maybach. "Take her to our private facility. As for her illness, I'll handle it personally."