Dying for His Love

The crystal chandelier cast fractured light across the marble floor of the Blackwood estate's grand ballroom, each shard reflecting the glittering gowns and diamond necklaces of Manhattan's elite. I stood beside the towering champagne fountain, my fingers trembling as they clutched the manila envelope that had arrived just hours before the gala.

The medical report inside felt heavier than lead.

*Dilated cardiomyopathy, end-stage. Estimated survival time: 100 days.*

One hundred days. The number burned behind my eyes as I watched my husband of three years move through the crowd like a predator among sheep, his dark suit perfectly tailored, his smile devastatingly charming—for everyone except me.

Damien Blackwood commanded attention without effort. At thirty-two, he possessed the kind of ruthless magnetism that built empires and destroyed competitors. Tonight, he was in his element, discussing merger deals with oil executives while socialite daughters hung on his every word.

He hadn't looked at me once since we'd arrived.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Damien's voice cut through the ambient chatter as he stepped onto the small stage beside the orchestra. The room fell silent, two hundred pairs of eyes turning toward him with the reverence reserved for kings. "Thank you for joining us tonight for the Blackwood Foundation's annual charity gala."

I pressed the envelope against my chest, feeling my damaged heart struggle against my ribs.

"Before we begin the auction, I'd like to introduce some special guests." His gaze swept the crowd, landing briefly on me before moving on as if I were part of the furniture. "Senator Morrison and his lovely wife Catherine, who've donated generously to our children's hospital wing."

Applause rippled through the room.

"And of course," Damien continued, his tone shifting to something cooler, more detached, "my wife, Aria. She's... well, she's here in a supportive capacity. This is Aria, my... wife in name."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Around me, I felt the shift in the room's energy—the subtle turning of heads, the barely concealed whispers behind jeweled hands.

"Poor thing," I heard Mrs. Pemberton murmur to her companion. "The Winterbourne heiress, reduced to being a trophy wife for a man who doesn't even pretend to love her."

"Such a shame," came the reply. "She was brilliant once, wasn't she? MIT's youngest tenured professor in architecture. Now look at her—standing there like a ghost."

I lifted my chin higher, my training in aristocratic composure serving me well even as humiliation burned through my veins. The envelope crinkled in my grip.

One hundred days.

Damien stepped down from the stage, immediately surrounded by admirers and business associates. I watched him laugh at something Senator Morrison said, his hand resting casually on the small of some blonde socialite's back—the same gesture he'd once used with me, back when I still believed our marriage might become real.

That's when I saw her approaching.

Elise Moreau glided through the crowd like a wraith in pale pink silk, her delicate features arranged in an expression of practiced fragility. At twenty-five,