The President Is Chasing His Wife at the Crematorium

Lyra’s POV

I hated the hospital.

The sterile smell of disinfectant clung to everything, sharp and suffocating, mixing with the endless beeping of machines. It felt like the walls of the intensive care unit were closing in on me, suffocating my thoughts.

In my hand was the bill, six figures. Just for the consultancy.

My chest tightened, and I stared at the numbers again as if they'd magically change. How was I supposed to come up with that kind of money? Not in a year, not in two.

Not even if I worked myself to death.

I turned my gaze to the frail figure lying on the bed. My grandmother, the strongest woman I knew, looked so small beneath the layers of blankets.

I bit my lips as I felt reality press down on my shoulders as her faint smile greeted me.

“You’re back from the accounts section,” she said weakly, her voice barely above a whisper. “How did it go?”

I forced a smile, swallowing the panic threatening to spill out. “Nothing to worry about, Grandma,” I lied, trying to sound cheerful. “I’ll ask my boss for overtime. We’ll figure it out.”

She studied me, her knowing eyes seeing through the facade. I could feel my resolve cracking, but I couldn’t let her see the despair lurking beneath the surface.

“Did the doctor tell you?” she asked suddenly.

I shook my head, nervous about the answer. “No, not yet.”

Her frail hand reached for mine, her touch light but grounding. “Lupus,” she said softly.

The word hung in the air, foreign and heavy. “Lupus?” I repeated, my brows furrowing. “What is that?”

Her lips twitched into a weak smile. “It’s what I call a rich man’s sickness.”

“Grandma, this is not the time for jokes,” I said, my voice wavering between sternness and concern.

She chuckled softly, a sound that somehow felt both comforting and heartbreaking. “What do you expect me to do, darling? Cry about it? We have to find humor somewhere, or I might just add stress to my list of ailments.”

Her attempt at lightening the mood didn’t soothe me. The reality of the situation was sinking in too fast. Before I could respond, a nurse entered the room, breaking the moment. She smiled politely before glancing at me.

“How’s everything going in here?” the nurse asked gently.

I hesitated. “Could you... could you explain what lupus is?” My voice felt small, uncertain.

The nurse nodded, pulling up a chair beside me. “Lupus is an autoimmune disease,” she began. “It means the body’s immune system attacks its own tissues and organs.”

I blinked, trying to keep up. “Wait, so… it’s like her body is fighting itself?”

“Exactly,” the nurse replied. “It can affect many parts of the body—joints, skin, kidneys, even the lungs. That’s why her breathing has been a concern.”

“And it’s… serious?”

She hesitated, her eyes softening. “It’s manageable with the right treatment. But without it…” She trailed off, letting the unspoken words hang between us.