My Husband Faked Cancer to Destroy Me

I woke up at dawn. The apartment was quiet. Niko was still asleep—or pretending to be. I couldn't tell anymore. I didn't care.

I sat at the edge of the mattress we'd dragged in from the curb two years ago. The springs dug into my thighs. My hands rested in my lap, palms up. The scars caught the early light. White lines crisscrossing my skin like a map of every lie I'd believed.

Three years.

I stood and walked to the kitchen. The linoleum was cracked. The fridge hummed loud enough to wake the neighbors. I opened the cabinet where I kept his pills—rows of orange bottles with labels I'd memorized. Dosages. Timing. Side effects. I knew them better than my own name.

I picked up one bottle. Turned it over. The label was real. The prescription was real. But the pills inside?

I twisted the cap and poured them into my hand. Small white tablets. I'd never actually watched him swallow one. He always took them in the bathroom. Door closed. Water running.

I dropped them back in the bottle and set it on the counter.

Then I walked away.

The morning stretched. I didn't check his temperature. Didn't fluff his pillows. Didn't ask if he needed water. I sat by the window and watched the street below. People walked to work. Cars honked. Life kept moving.

Behind me, Niko stirred. I heard the rustle of sheets. A cough—wet, perfectly timed. He called my name. Soft. Weak.

"Elisa?"

I didn't turn around.

"Elisa, can you bring me some water?"

I stood. Walked to the kitchen. Filled a glass. Brought it to him. Set it on the nightstand. Walked away.

He blinked at me. "Are you okay?"

"Fine."

"You seem..." He trailed off. Coughed again. "Distant."

I looked at him. Really looked. The pale skin. The careful tremor in his hand as he reached for the glass. The way his eyes tracked my movements, calculating.

"I'm tired," I said.

He nodded. Sipped the water. "You work too hard. Maybe you should rest today."

"I got fired."

His expression shifted—surprise, then concern. "What? When?"

"Last night."

"Elisa, I'm so sorry." He set the glass down. Started to sit up. Winced like it hurt. "We'll figure something out. We always do."

I walked back to the window.

The day passed slowly. I didn't look for another job. Didn't check the classifieds. Didn't call the temp agencies. I just sat.

At noon, I went to the bodega on the corner. I bought a sandwich. Turkey and cheese. Lettuce. Tomato. It cost eight dollars. I'd spent months telling myself eight dollars was too much. That Niko needed it more.

I sat on the curb outside and ate the whole thing.

Halfway through, my stomach cramped. Hard. I doubled over, breathing through my nose. My body didn't remember how to process real food. Three years of half-portions and skipped meals had shrunk me from the inside out.

I finished it anyway.

When I got back, Niko was awake. He looked at me from the bed. "Where were you?"

"Out."

"I was worried."

I didn't answer.

That night, I made dinner. Rice and canned beans. I put half on a plate for him. The other half I ate myself. All of it. I didn't save any for tomorrow. Didn't ration. Didn't calculate.

Niko watched me across the table. He picked at his food. "You're eating a lot."

"I'm hungry."

"I just mean... that's good. You should eat more. You're too thin."

I looked at him. He looked back. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes. Uncertainty. Doubt.

Then he coughed and it was gone.

Later, when he thought I was asleep, I heard him get up. Heard him walk to the kitchen. The soft clink of pill bottles. The tap running.

I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling.

The next morning, I gathered my things. I didn't have much. My ID. My Social Security card. A photograph of my father from before everything fell apart. My last paycheck stub—thinner than it should've been because Marcus docked me for getting hit.

I put them in a plastic grocery bag.

Niko was still in bed. I stood in the doorway and looked at him. His chest rose and fell. Steady. Strong. The chest of a healthy man.

I walked to the kitchen counter. Pulled my wedding ring from my pocket—the cheap replacement I'd bought after selling the real one. I set it down next to his pill bottles.

No note. No explanation.

I picked up the grocery bag and walked to the door.

"Elisa?"

I stopped. Didn't turn around.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"When will you be back?"

I opened the door. The hallway smelled like old carpet and cooking grease.

"I don't know," I said.

And I left.

I didn't know where I was going. I just walked. Block after block. The city moved around me—people rushing, horns blaring, the subway rumbling beneath my feet.

I walked until my legs ached. Until the sun started to set. Until I found myself standing outside a building I recognized.

Mount Sinai Hospital.

I stood there for a long time. Watched people go in and out. Doctors. Nurses. Patients in wheelchairs. Families holding hands.

I thought about all the times I'd come here with Niko. All the appointments. All the scans. All the concerned looks from doctors I'd believed were trying to save him.

My phone buzzed. I pulled it out.

A text from Niko: *Where are you? I'm worried. Please come home.*

I stared at the screen.

Then I turned and walked away.

That night, I didn't go back to the apartment. I found a bench in Central Park and sat until the cold drove me to a 24-hour diner. I ordered coffee. Nursed it for hours. The waitress didn't say anything. Just refilled my cup.

At 3 a.m., my phone buzzed again.

Another text: *Elisa, please. I need you. I can't do this alone.*

I turned the phone off.

Somewhere across the city, in an office I'd never seen, Niko's attorney was drafting paperwork. Transferring assets. Millions of dollars moving from one account to another.

Future compensation, Niko had said.

For when he was ready to end the game.

I didn't know that yet. Wouldn't know for a long time.

But sitting in that diner, watching the sky turn gray with dawn, I knew one thing:

I was done playing.