Chloe Bennett stared down at the divorce receipt, stunned.
She and Eliana had been inseparable for over a decade.
Chloe had watched, up close, just how far gone Eliana had been over Nathaniel Cole a devotion so complete it bordered on self-destruction.
Eliana would have thrown herself in front of a truck for that man, and meant it.
When they’d finally married a year ago, Chloe had sighed with worry even as she celebrated her best friend’s decade-long wish, finally granted.
And now this.
What on earth had happened?
“I don’t love him anymore,” Eliana said, before Chloe could even ask.
She looked at Chloe and smiled a real smile, unguarded, beautiful.
For a second, Chloe caught a glimpse of someone she hadn’t seen in years: the girl Eliana used to be, back when the Hart family was still intact, before her father died, before life ground her down into the person she’d become.
Chloe felt something in her chest loosen with relief.
“Nathaniel doesn’t know I’m pregnant,” Eliana continued.
“I don’t want anything complicating the thirty-day waiting period, so it’s better he never finds out.”
Under Ashford’s divorce law, either party could withdraw the application during that thirty-day cooling-off window, and the marriage would simply continue as if nothing had happened.
Chloe understood then Eliana wasn’t hesitating.
She was gone for good.
Once she’d heard the whole story, Chloe handed Eliana a list of pre-op tests and said, “You’ll need to schedule the procedure in a few days, Eliana.”
“Is something wrong?” Eliana asked, confused.
“You’ve got Rh-negative blood, it’s rare,” Chloe said.
“Just as a precaution, I already called the blood bank to reserve a supply.
Should be ready within the week.”
Eliana went still.
A flash of old grief crossed her face.
That blood type had come from her father.
She thought of him again the second time that day.
If he were still alive after all these years…
“Mm.” Eliana swallowed the feeling down, smiled with red-rimmed eyes, and nodded.
“One more thing you’re already showing early signs of miscarriage, so be careful the next few days.”
Chloe’s chest ached, watching her.
They’d grown up together.
She understood exactly what kind of grief lived behind that smile.
She squeezed Eliana’s hand.
“Wait for me.
I’m on the morning shift, almost done.
We’ll head home together after.”
Eliana nodded and waited in the corridor.
She looked down at her stomach.
Signs of miscarriage.
Did the baby already know what she’d decided?
Was it trying to leave first, before she could make it official?
She pressed her lips together and carried the test forms off to the lab.
Buzz.
Her phone lit up a balance alert from her bank account.
It was the new card she’d opened specifically for the separation period, so nothing overlapped with anything traceable to Nathaniel.
From now on, every cent she earned went here.
Right behind the balance alert came another message.
Payment received for composition and lyric-writing credit.
Transfer confirmed by accounting please verify.
Before marrying Nathaniel, Eliana had worked quietly behind the scenes in the music industry.
She’d always loved music.
Back when her father was alive and she was still the pampered eldest daughter of the Hart family, she’d wanted for nothing, and that included a proper musical education.
Then came the years of hardship and drifting that followed his death years that gave her a harder, deeper understanding of what life actually was.
Her father could never have guessed that the hobby he’d once nurtured in her would end up being the thing that kept her fed after he was gone.
She thought it over, then typed back: Received, thank you.
The reply came instantly: You’ve earned every cent of it.
Honestly, you’ve quietly written some massive hits over the years.
Have you ever thought about stepping into the spotlight yourself?
There’s a show that would be perfect for you.
Details are in your inbox.
I’ve already saved you a contestant slot.
Eliana opened her email, a music competition show.
The format wasn’t complicated, similar to others she’d seen before, but it demanded real originality from its contestants.
She typed back: Let me think about it.
She set the phone down.
A dull ache pulsed low in her stomach.
She thought of her father again.
Twice now, in one day.
…
Meanwhile, online, trending tags were exploding across every platform
#VivianBlakeStomachCancer#
#FloristVivianBlakesFinalCountdown#
#VivianFacesHerIllnessWithASmile#
…
The most-shared post read:
“…Reporters have confirmed that celebrity florist Vivian Blake has been diagnosed with stomach cancer, with an estimated six months remaining.
Rather than retreat from the public eye, Blake has announced she’ll be documenting her final months online, turning her countdown into something close to reality television.”
In the accompanying video, Vivian gave the camera a soft, sorrowful smile.
“For these last six months, I want to share my journey with everyone.
My only hope is to offer some comfort to others fighting the same disease and for everyone else, I hope you never have to.”
The reporter turned back to the camera.
“Sources close to the situation suggest a connection between Ms.
Blake and Nathaniel Cole, CEO of Cole Group.
Mr.
Cole, however, is a married man.
Are we watching the opening act of a real-life scorned-wife drama?”
Vivian noticed the mic swinging her way and stepped in smoothly, taking the floor with a practiced smile.
She looked straight into the lens.
“It’s true I do have feelings for Nathaniel.
I won’t pretend otherwise.”
“He’s an extraordinary man.
I doubt I’m the only woman who’s noticed that.”
“But I want to be clear about one thing: I will never be the other woman in someone else’s marriage.
That’s a line I don’t cross.
Thank you.”
…
With that, she stepped off camera and let the reporters scramble for follow-up.
She wove through the crowd, slid into her car, and only then let the smile drop.
Her private nurse flown in from overseas, expensive, discreet handed her a cup of warm water, hesitation written across her face.
“Say it,” Vivian said coldly.
“The driver’s one of ours.”
The nurse lowered her voice.
“Ms.
Blake, your actual diagnosis is a stomach ulcer.
Faking terminal cancer while receiving care at our facility is already a massive liability.
Why go and broadcast it publicly on top of that?”
Vivian’s smile turned condescending, and the nurse fell silent, unsure how to read it.
“Is your facility a licensed medical institution?” Vivian asked.
The nurse nodded.
“Do you keep independent medical records on your patients?”
Another nod.
“Do my records state, in writing, stage-four stomach cancer with six months to live?”
The nurse hesitated, then nodded a third time.
“Then what’s the problem?” Vivian smiled wider.
“It’s all on paper.
We have nothing to hide from an investigation.”
“But you don’t actually have cancer, and if this comes out”
“There are two ways this plays out,” Vivian cut in, eyes hardening.
“One I eventually ‘recover,’ because love performed a miracle.
Two, your facility made a diagnostic error, a medical malpractice case, and I was mistreated for months as a result.”
Her voice dropped, colder now.
“Which version sounds better to you?”
The nurse’s expression soured, but all she said was, “My apologies, Ms.
Blake.
I overstepped.
You’ve clearly thought this through.”
Vivian laughed, cold and short.
“Where to now, Ms.
Blake?” the nurse asked, trying to smooth things over.
Vivian glanced at her phone.
“Ashford General Hospital.”
The nurse tensed.
“But”
“Relax, we’re just grabbing painkillers with my file as cover.” Vivian fired off a text to Nathaniel, asking him to pick her up from the hospital afterward.
His reply came fast.
Got it.
Meanwhile, in a hospital bathroom across the building, Eliana doubled over with a sharp pain low in her abdomen, staring down at a tissue in her hand.
Streaked red.
The warning signs of a miscarriage.