She's Dead, Mr. Blackwood Please Don't Cry

The silence in Dr. Miles Hayes's office was so heavy it felt like a physical weight on Seraphina Ross's chest. Her gaze was fixed on the small, ridiculously cheerful succulent sitting on the corner of his desk. Its vibrant green felt like an insult, a stark contrast to the gray numbness spreading through her veins.

"Seraphina?" Miles's voice was gentle, pulling her back. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his expression a careful mixture of professional calm and personal pain. "Did you hear me?"

She heard him.Stage IV stomach cancer. Prognosis: poor.

Her fingertips were ice-cold, a strange disconnect from the rest of her body.

"How long?" Her voice was a dry whisper, unrecognizable to her own ears.

Miles hesitated, the silence stretching for a second. "Without aggressive treatment... less than six months."

The word 'treatment' echoed in the sterile room. It didn't conjure images of fighting or survival. It conjured the pale, tired face of her father, Arthur, and the mountain of medical bills that had already crushed their family once. Her own treatment would be a financial apocalypse.

She made her first clear decision in what felt like an eternity. "No treatment."

"Sera, don't be ridiculous," Miles started, leaning forward. "We can fight this. There are trials, specialists..."

"I can't afford it, Miles."

"Your husband can," he said, the name hanging in the air between them. Damien Blackwood. A name that could buy entire hospitals, let alone the best medical care in the world.

A bitter, humorless smile touched Seraphina's lips.

A year ago. Rain lashing against the windows of their penthouse. She was three months pregnant, a secret joy she was planning to share with Damien that night. She'd slipped on a wet spot on the marble floor, a sudden, jarring fall. Then the cramping started, a vicious, twisting pain. Blood, bright red and terrifying, bloomed on the fabric of her white dress.

She had called him, her fingers trembling so hard she could barely dial. "Damien, something's wrong. The baby..."

His voice on the other end was distant, impatient. He was at a charity gala. "Seraphina, I'm in the middle of something."

"Please," she'd sobbed, the pain stealing her breath. "I'm bleeding."

A pause. Then, the words that had hollowed her out. "Bianca's not feeling well. She thinks she's having a panic attack. I have to get her to the hospital. I'll call you back."

He never did. She had taken a cab to the emergency room alone, signed the consent forms for the D&C with a hand slick with her own blood, and lost their child under the cold, impersonal lights of a hospital, with no one holding her hand.

The memory receded, leaving a wasteland in its wake.She blinked, pulling herself from the memory's grip. The pain was old, but it still had teeth.

"You can't tell him," she said, her voice gaining a sliver of steel. It was her second decision. "Swear to me, Miles. Not as my doctor. As my friend."

He looked at her, truly looked at the dark circles under her eyes, the hollows in her cheeks she'd been trying to hide with makeup for weeks. He saw the desperation warring with a terrifying resolve. He finally gave a slow, reluctant nod.

"I swear."

Relief, cold and thin, washed over her. She stood up, her body feeling hollowed out, as if her bones had been scooped clean. But her eyes were clear. For the first time in three years, she knew exactly what she had to do.

She walked out of his office. The hospital corridor was long and white, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic. It felt less like a place of healing and more like the first step into a tomb. She leaned against the cool wall, her legs threatening to give out.

Her hand trembled as she pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over the contact photo of Damien-a professionally shot portrait where he looked handsome, powerful, and utterly devoid of warmth. She pressed the call button.

He answered on the third ring. "What now, Seraphina?" His voice was clipped, impatient, as if her call was just another item on a long list of irritations.

She took a deep, shaky breath, forcing the air into lungs that felt too tight. She focused on making her voice flat, devoid of the emotion that was tearing her apart.

"Damien, I want a divorce."

A short, sharp laugh came through the phone. It was a sound she knew well, one that dripped with condescension. "Another one of your games? What is it this time? Trying to renegotiate the prenup? I thought we were clear on its terms."

Before she could form a reply, a woman's voice, soft and cloying, drifted from the background. It was faint, but unmistakable.

"Damien, darling, who is it? Don't let them bother you."

Bianca Thorne. Damien's first love. The name was a key turning a lock in her chest, releasing a hot surge of fury that burned away the last of her shock. The humiliation was a physical thing, a hot flush crawling up her neck.

She gripped the phone so tightly her knuckles turned white. All the numbness, all the despair, coalesced into a single, sharp point of resolve.

"Damien Blackwood," she said, her voice low and shaking with a cold rage. "I'm not playing. I want a divorce. Now."