My Fiancé Abandoned Me in the Hospital for His Mistress

Shane's text messages began at 7:03 AM. I was already awake, staring at the ceiling of the hotel room I'd checked into last night. The first one buzzed against my nightstand like a persistent wasp.

'I know you're upset, Eve. You have every right to be. But this doesn't have to be the end.'

I didn't respond. My thumb smoothed the edge of the hotel notepad where I'd been making lists. What to do with six months. How to die with dignity. How not to become my mother, who couldn't bear to watch my father waste away, or my father, who'd begged her not to leave.

The second text came twenty minutes later. 'Baby, please. Six years. Six years can't end like this over one mistake.'

The third, an hour after that: 'You're at the hotel, aren't you? I know you, Eve. You always need space to think. Take it. But know I'm waiting when you're ready to come home.'

He didn't know me at all. He knew the Eve who smoothed things over, who gave him the benefit of every doubt, who believed in the sanctity of comfort over truth. That Eve had died yesterday in Dr. Solís's office.

I showered, dressed in the spare outfit I'd grabbed, and headed to the office. One last task before I could truly begin to live my death.

The fluorescent lights hummed their usual tune as I slipped into my cubicle. The box from HR was waiting on my desk, stark and brown against the sleek glass. I began methodically emptying my drawers—pens, notebooks, the coffee mug Wilder had given me when I'd nailed the Henderson account. My thumb ran along the ceramic rim, a goodbye to small, ordinary moments.

'Eve.'

I didn't look up. Wilder's voice carried that familiar edge of command, but something else too. Something I couldn't place.

'I see you've received my email,' I said, folding a stack of files into the box.

'And I see you're still packing.' He appeared in my doorway, his tall frame blocking the light from the hallway. His tie was already loosened—a tell I'd noticed years ago meant he was thinking, not performing. 'Cancel your dinner plans.'

I finally looked up. 'I don't have any.'

'Now you do.' He stepped closer, and I caught the scent of his cologne—cedar and something sharp, like rain on pavement. 'Seven o'clock. The Italian place on Fifth.'

'I resigned, Wilder.'

'You wrote an email. HR hasn't processed it yet.' His eyes, usually sharp enough to cut glass, held something softer. 'You owe me a proper goodbye, at least.'

I should have said no. I had nothing left to say to this man who'd been my professional barometer for five years, whose approval I'd secretly craved even as I dreaded his critiques. But something in his tone—not a request, not quite a command—left no room for refusal.

'Fine,' I said, sealing the box with packing tape. 'But I'm paying for myself.'

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. 'Always the accountant.'

The restaurant was dimly lit, all red leather and warm light. Wilder was already seated at a corner table when I arrived, a glass of wine waiting for me. No menu. He'd ordered for both of us—a habit I'd normally resent, but tonight, I was grateful not to have to make one more decision.

'So,' he said, swirling his wine. 'Terminal liver cancer and a cheating fiancé. You've been busy.'

I nearly choked on my first sip. 'Excuse me?'

'Your resignation email. You were typing it when Dr. Solís called yesterday.' He leaned forward. 'You think I don't notice everything, Eve?'

Before I could respond, the restaurant door swung open. The air shifted. My entire body went rigid, a physical ache spreading through my chest that had nothing to do with the tumor.

Shane walked in, his hand pressed against the small of Kataleya's back. She was laughing at something he'd said, her blonde hair catching the light. He guided her toward a table near the window, his touch possessive, familiar.

Wilder's eyes never left my face. He watched the color drain from my cheeks, the way my fingers tightened around the wine glass. He saw everything, as always.