Diagnosed with Cancer, I ran away from my Cheater Husband

I woke up to the sterile scent of antiseptic and the soft hum of a heart monitor beside me. The room was dim, but morning light tried to press its way through the half-closed curtains. Something cold brushed gently across my arm.

“You’re okay now, sweetheart,” the nurse whispered, her voice kind. She was tending to my skin—burned in patches, especially along my arms. Her hands moved gently, as though she knew the pain didn’t stop at the surface.

Pain pulsed through my ribs when I tried to shift. My lips parted.

“The baby…” I croaked. “Where’s my baby?”

The nurse paused. Her eyes softened with something I recognized all too well—pity.

She didn’t need to say it.

But she did anyway, her voice soft and apologetic.

“I’m sorry, The baby… couldn’t be saved.”

It felt like my world stopped. Like the bed I lay on opened up and swallowed me whole. My hands trembled, slowly moving to my belly.

Flat. Too flat. Empty.

The sharpest pain didn’t come from the burns or the bruises. It came from the silence where a heartbeat should’ve been.

A sob broke out of me before I could stop it. And then another. Until I couldn’t breathe.

The nurse stayed close, gently placing a hand on my shoulder.

“You’re lucky,” she whispered after a moment. “Your husband was the one who insisted we save you. He wouldn’t leave your side. Said he didn’t care what it took, just save his wife. He was so worried. So devoted. You should’ve seen how he looked at you.”

I blinked through my tears. My chest stilled for a beat.

Jameson? Jameson saved me?

I tried to sit up, the confusion churning in my gut. I didn’t understand.

“Jameson?” I whispered.

She tilted her head. “Jameson? No… the man who brought you in… his name was Killian.”

The air rushed out of my lungs. My hands dropped from the blanket.

Of course. Of course, it wasn’t Jameson. Why would the man who wanted me dead try to keep me alive?

I reached for my phone with shaky fingers. My hands trembled as I opened my call log.

The last number I dialed—Killian.

I thought I’d called my grandfather in those last moments, but my fingers must have moved on instinct. They remembered the man who once loved me when my heart couldn’t.

Killian. My ex-boyfriend. My once-best friend. The man whose heart I broke when I told him I wanted to focus on my studies, on building a future—only to fall for Jameson and say yes when our families arranged a merger through marriage.

He was the one who came. Not Jameson.

I never expected Killian to still care. I hurt him. Walked away from him when he loved me most. And yet, he came back when I needed him most.

I was about to call him—to say thank you, to say I’m sorry—when the door slammed open.

Jameson stood in the doorway. Face red. Rage pouring off him like steam.

"You bitch!" he snarled.

Before I could even react, his hand came down hard across my cheek.

The sound cracked through the room.

My head snapped sideways. My skin burned. My lip split.

“What did you do to my child?!” he shouted.

Tears blurred my vision as I clutched the blanket.

“I didn’t—Jameson, I was in a fire. I was dying. I didn’t choose this—”

“You should’ve saved the baby!” he screamed. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?! I don’t care about your excuses! Someone should’ve died—and it should’ve been you!”

I gasped.

"You didn’t even come!" I cried. "I was begging for help—calling for you—and you were with her. With Rose!"

Another slap. This time across the other cheek. My neck stung. My skull throbbed.

“Now you’re blaming me?” he shouted. “Trying to make this about me? What now? Who helped you?! Who saved you? Tell me! Are you screwing him? Cheating on me while lying in a hospital bed?”

“I didn’t—”

“I swear to God,” he growled, fists clenched, “if I find out you’ve been with another man—”

I flinched as he raised his hand again, but before it could fall, his phone rang. He answered it with a furious grunt.

"What?" he barked.

His face paled slightly. Then twisted.

"My grandfather," he muttered, throwing a glare at me. “He’s asking about the baby.”

He paused. Then shouted into the phone again, pacing the room like a caged animal.

When he hung up, he turned to me with venom in his voice.

“You worthless, useless bitch,” he spat. “Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve ruined everything. My inheritance. My future. My name. I should’ve let you burn in that fire.”

And just like that, he stormed out.

Leaving me alone.

Broken.

Bleeding.

My chest heaved as I stared at the door.

He had never loved me. I thought I could endure it for the baby—for the peace of pretending—but now, there was nothing to hold on to.

Except myself. No more. No more slaps. No more threats. No more pretending.

I picked up the hospital phone and called the police.

“This is Diana Hartwell,” I said clearly. “I want to report a crime. Arson. I believe it was intentional.”

The woman on the other end asked questions, and I answered them as calmly as I could.

“Do you have a suspect?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Her name is Rose Smith.”

I hung up before the weight of the decision could sink in. I knew she wouldn’t go down easily. But I was done playing victim in a story I didn’t write.

Later that night, my phone rang.

The name that flashed across the screen made my eyes water.

“Grandpa,” I whispered.

I answered, and his voice filled the silence.

“I heard what happened. Killian told me everything,” he said, voice trembling with fury and concern. “Don’t worry, my dear. Everything is being arranged. I’ll come pick you up in two days. Just hold on.”

My hand tightened around the phone.

“Two days…” I whispered.

Two days until I leave this life behind.