My Husband Faked Cancer to Destroy Me

The phone buzzed at 2 p.m. I was sitting in the diner, staring at cold coffee. I'd been there since dawn. The waitress had stopped asking if I wanted a refill.

The sound cut through the fog in my head. Sharp. Insistent.

But it wasn't my phone.

I looked down. My phone sat dark on the table. I'd turned it off hours ago.

The buzzing came again. From my bag. The plastic grocery bag I'd packed when I left.

I reached inside. My fingers found something hard. Rectangular. I pulled it out.

A phone I didn't recognize. Sleek. Black. Expensive.

It must have been in the apartment. Must have gotten mixed in with my things when I grabbed my documents from the drawer. I'd never seen it before.

The screen lit up. A text from a number with no name: *Plaza rooftop. 8 tonight. JB welcome home party. Black tie.*

I stared at the message.

JB. Jazmine Barnes.

My hands went cold.

I stood. Left money on the table. Walked out into the gray afternoon.

The Plaza Hotel rose above Fifth Avenue like something out of a fairy tale. Golden lights. Marble columns. Doormen in uniform.

I stood across the street at 7:45 p.m. I wore the same clothes I'd been wearing for two days. My jacket was thin. My shoes were falling apart.

People walked past me into the hotel. Women in silk. Men in tuxedos. I watched them disappear through the revolving doors.

I didn't belong here anymore.

I used to.

Three years ago, I would've walked through those doors without thinking. Would've handed my coat to someone. Would've taken the elevator to whatever floor they told me.

Now I stood on the sidewalk and felt invisible.

At eight o'clock, I crossed the street. Walked around the side of the building. Found a service entrance. The door was propped open with a brick. I slipped inside.

The back hallway smelled like kitchen grease and steam. I followed the sound of voices. Found the service elevator. Pressed the button for the top floor.

When the doors opened, I heard music.

I stepped into a corridor. Followed it to a door marked STAFF ONLY. Pushed through.

I was in a coatroom. Empty. On the other side, floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto the rooftop terrace.

I moved closer.

The terrace was lit like daylight. String lights hung overhead. Round tables with white cloths. A bar at one end. A small band playing something smooth and expensive.

And in the center of it all, Niko.

He stood near the bar, champagne flute in hand. He wore a black tuxedo—perfectly tailored, probably custom. His hair was styled. His skin glowed. He laughed at something someone said. Full. Rich. The laugh of a man who owned the room.

No cough. No weakness. No tremor in his hand.

Next to him, Jazmine.

She wore a red dress that probably cost more than I'd made in a year. Her hair was swept up. Diamonds at her throat. She looked beautiful. Healthy. Whole.

Not a scratch on her.

She leaned into Niko. Put her hand on his arm. Smiled up at him like he was the only person in the world.

He smiled back.

Around them, fifty people I recognized from another life. Manhattan's elite. Faces from galas I used to attend. People who used to know my name.

I pressed my palm against the window.

Jazmine said something. Niko bent down so she could whisper in his ear. His expression shifted—amused, indulgent. He straightened and raised his glass.

The crowd quieted.

"To Jazmine," he said. His voice carried across the terrace. Strong. Confident. "Welcome home."

Everyone drank.

Jazmine beamed. She turned and waved at the crowd. They applauded.

I watched Niko watch her. The way he looked at her. Protective. Devoted.

The way he used to look at me.

Before.

I stepped back from the window. My reflection stared back at me in the glass. Hollow cheeks. Dull eyes. Ratty jacket. I looked like a ghost.

Behind my reflection, they kept celebrating.

I turned and walked back through the coatroom. Through the corridor. Into the service elevator.

The doors closed.

I didn't cry.

I just stood there while the elevator descended. Watched the numbers light up. Seven. Six. Five.

When the doors opened on the ground floor, I walked out into the night.

The air was cold. I pulled my jacket tighter. Started walking.

I didn't know where I was going. I just walked.

Block after block. The city blurred around me.

Somewhere above, in an office inside the Barnes family headquarters, a lawyer finished filing paperwork. Asset transfer documents. Millions of dollars moving into an account with my name on it.

Future compensation.

For when the game ended.

And somewhere else, in a penthouse apartment with a view of Central Park, Jazmine stood in front of a mirror. She was still wearing the red dress. Still wearing the diamonds.

Her phone sat on the vanity. She picked it up. Scrolled through her contacts. Found a name with no picture.

She typed: *I have a job for you.*

Then she hit send.

I walked until my feet went numb. Until the Plaza was miles behind me. Until I found myself in a part of the city I didn't recognize.

I stopped on a corner. Looked up at the street sign.

I had no idea where I was.

I pulled out my phone. Turned it on.

Twenty-three missed calls. Fifteen texts. All from Niko.

*Where are you?*

*Please come home.*

*I'm scared.*

*Elisa, please.*

I stared at the screen.

Then I turned the phone off again.

And I kept walking.