Oops, Looks Like You're the One Dying, Sweetheart

"Malignant. Stage three."

Dr. Evans's voice echoed off the sterile white tiles of the hallway. The manila folder in his hands snapped shut.

My knees gave out. I didn't plan it. My brain hadn't even processed the syllables yet, but my body reacted. My shoulder slammed hard against the wall, sliding down the paint until I hit the cold linoleum floor.

"Adeline? Do you need a nurse?" Dr. Evans bent at the waist, his brow furrowed in immediate concern.

"No." I pushed a flat palm against the floor, forcing myself back up. My legs felt like lead pipes. "I'm fine. Thank you, Doctor."

I turned away before he could offer another dose of pity.

My fingers fumbled inside my purse, pulling out my phone. The screen glared under the fluorescent lights. I tapped the speed dial for my husband.

It rang three times.

"What is it, Adeline?" Julian’s voice cracked through the speaker. Impatient. Sharp.

"I'm at the hospital." I stared at a crack in the plaster opposite me. "I just got the biopsy results back."

"And?" Papers rustled in the background. A keyboard clattered.

"It's cancer, Julian."

"Look, I told you it was probably just a cyst. You always overreact." A muffled voice spoke near him, and he sighed heavily into the receiver. "I have the quarterly review in five minutes. I can't do this right now."

"Did you hear what I just said?"

"I heard you. We'll talk about it tonight. Just... take a cab home. I have to go."

The line went dead.

I pulled the phone away from my ear. The screen turned black, reflecting my pale face. No comfort. No questions. Just a dial tone. The chill of the corridor seeped through my thin blouse, wrapping tightly around my ribs.

***

The engine of my sedan ticked in the silence of our driveway. I stared straight ahead through the windshield. The garage door remained shut.

Fifteen minutes. That was how long I had been sitting here with the ignition off.

My hands gripped the leather steering wheel. My knuckles turned stark white. A normal wife would be sobbing right now. She would be calling her mother, her sister, her friends.

I didn't shed a single tear.

Instead, a strange, absolute stillness settled over me. Julian's annoyed sigh looped in my head. *I can't do this right now.*

If he didn't have time for my illness, he didn't get to know the details. Not yet. I released the steering wheel. I would keep my mouth shut. I needed to see exactly how this house operated when I wasn't pleading for my husband’s attention.

I grabbed my purse, pushed the car door open, and walked up the front steps.

The key turned in the lock with a soft metallic scrape. I pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped into the foyer.

Voices drifted from the living room. Low. Urgent.

"We need to move the funds by Friday," Julian said. His tone lacked the rush he had just given me on the phone. It was steady, calculated.

"Are you sure the joint account is completely drained?" That was Martha. My mother-in-law.

"I handled it yesterday. The trust is set up under your name, Mom. She won't have access to a single dime if things go south."

My hand froze on the brass doorknob.

"Good." Martha’s voice dropped lower. "You need to protect your assets, Julian. Especially now."

I pushed the door shut. The latch clicked loudly.

The voices in the living room vanished instantly. Dead silence.

I walked around the corner. Julian stood by the fireplace, his phone gripped tightly in his right hand. Martha sat on the beige sofa, a teacup suspended halfway to her mouth.

"Adeline." Julian cleared his throat, adjusting his silk tie. "I thought you were taking a cab."

"I drove myself." I kept my face entirely blank. "What funds are we moving by Friday?"

Julian’s jaw tightened. "Business capital. A new investment property. Nothing you need to worry about."

"Right." I shifted my gaze to Martha.

She placed her teacup on the saucer. A wide, unnatural smile stretched across her face, pulling the skin tight around her eyes.

"Adeline, sweetheart!" She stood up, smoothing down her wool skirt. "You look absolutely exhausted. Why didn't you tell us you were coming home so soon?"

"I live here, Martha."

"Of course you do, dear." She crossed the room, her hands reaching out to pat my arm. I stepped back, avoiding her touch. "I actually just finished making a fresh pot of chicken soup. You must be starving. Let me get you a bowl."

"I'm not hungry."

"Nonsense." Her voice carried an artificial sweetness that made the hairs on my arms stand up. "You need your strength. Sit down. I insist."

She didn't wait for an answer, bustling past me into the kitchen.

I looked back at Julian. He avoided my eyes, staring intently at the oak floorboards.

"How was the hospital?" he asked to the floor.

"Fine."

"See? I told you there was nothing to worry about." He finally looked up, flashing a quick, empty smile. "I have to get back to the office. I'll be late tonight."

He grabbed his briefcase from the armchair and walked out the front door without another word.

Martha returned a minute later, holding a steaming porcelain bowl. She set it carefully on the dining table.

"Eat up, dear," she coaxed, pulling out a chair. "It's an old family recipe. Very nourishing."

I stared at the oily surface of the broth. Martha had never cooked a single meal for me in the four years I had been married to her son. She usually complained about the smell of onions in the house.

"Thank you," I said flatly.

"I'll leave you to it. Rest up." She patted the back of my chair and headed toward the guest room.

I didn't touch the soup. I left it steaming on the wood and walked up the carpeted stairs to the master bedroom.

The door shut behind me. I tossed my purse onto the bed and walked over to my vanity. My neck felt stiff. I needed to wash my face, change out of these clothes, and think.

I reached for the mahogany jewelry box sitting on the glass tabletop. I always took off my wedding ring and my grandmother’s diamond pendant before showering.

I flipped the brass latch. The lid popped open.

My eyes scanned the velvet compartments. Rings. Earrings. Bracelets.

Something was wrong.

I reached into the center slot and pulled out the emerald necklace Julian had given me for our first anniversary. It was supposed to be heavy. It was supposed to catch the afternoon light from the window and refract a deep, brilliant green.

The piece in my hand felt impossibly light.

I ran my thumb over the center stone. The surface was perfectly smooth, lacking the microscopic natural flaw I had memorized years ago. The metal chain felt cheap, almost plastic against my skin.

I stared at the fake jewelry in my palm.

The joint account. The trust in Martha's name. The hushed conversation downstairs.

They weren't just planning for a divorce. They were already stripping me bare.

And they had started with the safe hidden behind my closet wall.