It hit me then: this house had never belonged to me.
I had lived here for five years—
washing his shirts, cooking his meals, sorting through his files—
a machine disguised as a wife, programmed to serve.
And even that title, wife, turned out to be nothing more than a
convenient lie.
Nova leaned against his chest, her face upturned, smiling.
Her lips brushed his jaw in a featherlight kiss.
“You once told me,” she murmured, “that after your surgery, you never
wanted to remember those dark days again.”
“Yes,” Lucas answered quietly, his gaze soft, almost tender—so tender I
barely recognized him.
“I just want to live again.”
For a moment, I nearly laughed.
Live again?
The only reason his heart still beat today was because I had spent those
endless nights begging, pleading, searching for a way to keep him alive.
I remembered that snowy night at the hospital—
the hallway lights going out one by one,
my knees pressed against the freezing tiles as I signed the
authorization form.
“Are you willing to donate part of your own tissue? The match rate is
low, but it might save him.”
I hadn’t hesitated.
Back then, I believed love meant giving away pieces of your heart—
even if it had to be cut out by hand.