“We need a divorce. She has stomach cancer. They’ve given her six months.”

In the aftermath of their intimacy, Caspian Thorne sat up, his voice a cool, distant thing.

Lyra Sanford, her breathing still uneven from their encounter, turned to him slowly, a storm of disbelief in her eyes.

They had been married for a year. What was this sudden talk of divorce?

“Her last wish is to be my wife,” Caspian added, almost as an afterthought.

He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling in lazy spirals around his face.

Lyra could only stare at him, stunned. A thick silence settled over the room.

The bedside lamp cast a soft glow, stretching their shadows across the wall until they seemed miles apart.

Caspian glanced at her, his brow furrowed in a faint line of impatience.

“It’s just to comfort her,” he explained. “We’ll remarry in six months. She won’t be around for long, Lyra.”

His tone was steady, almost detached, as if he were relaying a message that had nothing to do with him.

Lyra watched him wordlessly, her gaze fixed on the sharp line of his profile. He spoke as if giving an order, not making a request.

Their relationship had always been a pursuit on her part, a chase born of youthful adoration. She had followed him for years, weathering every difficult season without once letting go.

Lyra remembered the day he’d stood between her and her stepfather in a downpour, gripping a splintered piece of wood. “Touch Lyra again,” he had said, his voice laced with fire, “and you’ll regret it.”

That single moment was seared into her memory. Even weak and bleeding, she had seen him—a fierce, unmovable protector. From that day forward, she was his.

She had loved him unconditionally, fulfilling his every request more perfectly than anyone else could have. He would pat her head, a light, warm gesture, and murmur, “You did so well, Lyra.”

But Caspian’s praise was fleeting, his kisses ephemeral. The affection between them always felt just beyond her grasp, a reality she dismissed as simply being his way. Even when others called her naive, she remained, devoted and unwavering.

She had given him seven years of her life.

A year ago, Caspian’s grandmother, Eleonora Thorne, had fallen ill. In a bid to lift her spirits, the family decided Caspian should marry. The joy of a wedding, they hoped, would give the old woman something to live for.

And so, Caspian had married Lyra.

She had believed it was finally their time. But after the wedding, he grew distant. At times, he looked at her as if she were a complete stranger.

“Lyra, are you even listening?” Caspian’s scowl broke through her thoughts as he noticed her vacant stare.

“Does it have to be this way?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

He didn’t answer, saying instead, “She’s been through so much, Lyra.”

A knot tightened in Lyra’s chest. “And what about me?”

Caspian’s dark, steady eyes flickered with impatience. After a moment, he said, “Lyra, she’s dying. She’s in love with me. Because we were married, she never let things go too far, even when I tried to make it up to her. She’s a good person. Please, just give her this. Don’t make me think you’re heartless.”

His calm, measured words cut deeper than any shout could have.

So, in Caspian’s world, the woman who loved a married man—who promised to keep her distance but never truly did—was a saint. And the wife who wanted to keep her husband was heartless.

Lyra studied his face, the same one that had captivated her years ago—the intense eyes, the strong nose, the beautifully shaped lips.

When had it all started to unravel? Perhaps it was the day that woman appeared.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Lyra asked, her voice steadier now.

Caspian said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line. Finally, he began, “Yes, you—”

“Alright,” Lyra cut him off.

He looked up, surprised, and studied her with a frown.

“Lyra, you’re getting clever,” he said, a note of irritation in his tone. “You know I need your consent for this. Are you planning to use this to get under my skin?”

She didn’t reply, her gaze fixed on the white wall where their shadows stretched and distorted.

Caspian extinguished his cigarette. Without another word, he dressed and stormed out of the room, never once considering how his request might feel, how humiliating or painful it was.

He was certain she would never leave him. Utterly, completely sure.

The door slammed shut, leaving Lyra alone in the silence. She sat motionless, staring at the door as if he might reappear.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message illuminated the screen. She picked it up.

It was from a familiar number. “He came to see me again.”

Attached was a photo. Caspian’s face was visible in the reflection of a glass door, a gentle smile on his lips, his eyes filled with a warmth Lyra had never seen directed at her.

She froze. Slowly, she scrolled up through their message history.

“He said he has feelings for me.”

“Rainy nights aren’t lonely anymore because he’s here. What about you?”

“The one who isn’t loved is the real other woman. Lyra, you were never his first choice, just a convenience. He appreciates beauty the way I do, he shares my tastes, and he loves me.”

The messages were a running commentary on Caspian’s betrayal. The man who had been so distant with her for seven years had apparently mastered tenderness for someone else.

Lyra scrolled to the very first text. “You should know who I am. Did you like the flowers in your living room today? I sent them. He said they were beautiful.”

Of course, Lyra knew who it was. Isolde Finch, the celebrated floral designer whose arrangements graced the grand villas and lavish parties of the city’s elite.

Lyra had shown Caspian the messages before. He had dismissed them, claiming there was no proof they were from Isolde. He’d even suggested Lyra might have sent them to herself to cause trouble. Most of the messages were just text, and the few photos were too vague to be conclusive.

But today’s was different. Today’s was undeniable.

Lyra considered showing him the photo, but then her gaze fell to the bedside drawer. She pulled it open.

Inside lay the pregnancy test result from earlier that day.

She was pregnant with Caspian’s child. At the worst possible time.

Tears fell, blurring the ink on the paper. But what did it matter? Caspian’s heart had been gone for a long time.

Lyra wiped her face and picked up the lighter he had left behind. A small flame flickered to life as she held the test result to the fire.

Caspian had no idea that agreeing to the divorce would be the last thing she ever did for him. She had repaid her debt to him—not with money, but with seven years of her life.

She would never love him again.