The first treatment

The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and quiet dread. I sat on the reclining chair, my arm stretched out as the nurse prepared the IV drip. The needle prick burned, but I didn't flinch.

Pain was familiar. It felt almost comforting now.

"Try to relax, Mrs. Carter," the nurse said kindly. "This will take about two hours."

I nodded silently, watching the clear liquid drip steadily into my veins. My eyes blurred as I thought about what it was doing—killing the sickness inside me while also killing parts of me.

My hair.

My strength.

My chance to ever feel normal again.

Logan sat across from me, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly as if in prayer. He hadn't said a word since we arrived. He just watched me with haunted eyes, like a man waiting for the executioner's blade to drop.

"You don't have to stay," I said softly, my voice hoarse from dehydration. "I know you're busy."

His jaw clenched. "I'm not going anywhere."

I closed my eyes, leaning my head back against the chair. "You don't have to pity me."

"Is that what you think this is?" he asked, his voice low and trembling. "Pity?"

I didn't respond. I didn't have the strength to argue.

An hour passed in silence, broken only by the beeping of machines and the quiet hum of fluorescent lights overhead. I drifted in and out of sleep, nausea rising and fading in waves.

At one point, I felt warm fingers slip around mine. I forced my eyes open to see Logan kneeling beside me, his forehead pressed to our joined hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

My heart twisted painfully.

"Logan," I whispered weakly, squeezing his hand. "Don't."

He looked up, tears streaming down his face. It was the first time I had ever seen him cry.

"Please," he rasped, his voice breaking. "Please don't leave me."

My tears fell then, hot and bitter. "I'm trying," I whispered. "I'm trying so hard."

When the treatment was over, I was so weak he had to carry me to the car. I buried my face in his chest, breathing in his scent—cedar, rain, and something darker I could never quite name.

He laid me gently in the backseat, covering me with his suit jacket. As he buckled me in, his eyes locked onto mine with such fierce tenderness it made my chest ache.

"Sleep," he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "I'll wake you when we're home."

I drifted in and out of consciousness as the car moved through the rainy streets. At one point, I heard him on the phone, his voice low and deadly calm.

"Cancel everything for the week," he snapped. "I don't care what it is. Reschedule."

A pause. Then softer, almost broken: "She comes first now. Everything else can wait."

When we reached the penthouse, he carried me upstairs effortlessly. I felt like a doll in his arms—weightless, fragile, breakable.

Maria hurried forward when he entered, but he shook his head sharply.

"I'll take care of her."

He laid me on my bed gently, removing my shoes and cardigan, tucking the blanket around me with surprising tenderness. I watched him through half-closed eyes, my heart thudding dully.

This was the man I had married.

This was the man I had loved in silence for years.

And now, he was looking at me like I was his entire world.

He sat beside me, running his fingers through my hair gently.

"Rest," he murmured. "I'll be right here."

"Logan…" I whispered, my voice weak and cracking. "Why now?"

He inhaled shakily, closing his eyes. "Because I thought I could live without love. Without… you. But I can't."

A tear slipped down my cheek. "It's too late."

His eyes snapped open, blazing with pain and determination. "No. It's not. I won't let it be." He sat beside me.

I fell asleep to the feeling of his fingers stroking my hair, his warmth wrapped around me like a shield.

For the first time in months, I didn't dream of darkness.

I dreamed of the ocean.

Of standing at the edge of a roaring cliff, the wind tearing at my hair, the salt spray on my lips. I felt strong. Alive. Untouchable.

And behind me, I felt him. Silent. Solid. Watching with eyes that no longer looked past me, but saw every broken, beautiful piece.

When I woke hours later, the sun was setting in streaks of gold and crimson. I turned my head slowly and saw Logan sitting in the armchair across the room, his laptop open, phone pressed to his ear.

But his eyes weren't on his work. They were on me.

Always on me.

"Cancel the Tokyo deal," he said into the phone without looking away. "Tell them my wife is unwell. I'm staying in New York."

Another pause. His voice turned cold. "If they don't like it, we walk away."

He ended the call and closed his laptop, standing and walking towards me. His steps were slow, careful, as if approaching a wounded animal.

"How do you feel?" he asked softly.

"Like I got hit by a truck," I croaked.

He smiled faintly, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You're beautiful."

I let out a shaky laugh. "I look like death."

His smile faded as he reached out, cupping my cheek in his warm palm.

"You're the most alive thing I've ever known," he whispered.

My chest ached with longing and fear. "Don't say things you don't mean."

His thumb brushed my lips gently. "I've never meant anything more."

Before I could respond, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He glanced at it, his jaw tightening.

"What is it?" I asked weakly.

He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "It's Daniel Price. He wants to meet about your upcoming solo exhibition in Los Angeles."

My heart leapt in my chest. "Really? That's… that's incredible."

His eyes darkened, a flicker of possessive jealousy flashing across his face. "You're not strong enough to travel right now."

I frowned. "I'll decide that."

He clenched his jaw. "I don't trust him."

I narrowed my eyes. "This isn't about him, Logan. This is about me. My career. My dreams."

His eyes locked onto mine, fierce and unyielding. "You are my wife."

I laughed bitterly, ignoring the pain it caused my chest. "Your wife, Logan. Not your possession."

For a moment, his expression crumbled, raw pain flashing across his features. Then his mask slammed back into place, cold and hard.

"We'll talk about this later," he said quietly, standing and walking towards the door.

I watched him leave, my heart pounding with rage, fear, and something dangerously close to hope.

Because I saw it.

Behind his coldness.

Behind his control.

He was terrified.

And for the first time, I realised he wasn't fighting me.

He was fighting for me.