Chapter 3
The pain started in my joints—a dull ache that I initially dismissed as another allergic reaction. But as days turned to weeks, the discomfort intensified into something sharper, more persistent. My fingers would seize up in the mornings, refusing to bend until I'd spent ten minutes carefully stretching them. My hips and knees felt like they were filled with broken glass.
"Maybe you should see someone about that," Lucien said one evening, not looking up from his research papers. "Dr. Michaels has a colleague who specializes in joint pain."
I glanced up from my book, noticing how he'd positioned himself at the far end of the couch—as far from me as possible. "I thought you were the expert on my condition."
"I'm an immunologist, Melanie." His tone carried that familiar note of condescension. "Not a rheumatologist. Besides, you've been acting strange lately. Maybe it's psychological."
"Psychological?" I echoed, feeling my throat tighten—not from allergies this time, but from the familiar sensation of being gaslit.
Carmen appeared in the doorway, carrying a glass of red wine. She'd taken to showing up unannounced, always with some excuse about needing to borrow something. "What's wrong with her now?"
"Nothing's wrong," I said firmly. "I'm just tired."
"Exactly what I've been saying." Lucien finally looked up, his eyes meeting Carmen's over my head. Something passed between them—a look of shared amusement. "She's been forgetting things, getting confused. I think the stress is affecting her mentally."
I stood abruptly, my knees protesting with a sharp pain that made me wince. "I know what you're doing."
"What's that, sweetheart?" Carmen's voice dripped with false concern.
"You're switching my medication." The words came out before I could stop them.
Lucien's expression hardened. "Now you're being paranoid. Maybe we should call Dr. Patel about those psychiatric evaluation forms."
That night, I made a decision. If Lucien wouldn't help me get proper medical care, I'd find it myself. I called Dr. Patricia Wong's office under the pretense of a routine check-up, scheduling it during one of Lucien's long research days.
The clinic was quiet that morning, sunlight streaming through the blinds as Dr. Wong reviewed my charts with a furrowed brow.
"Your blood work shows some concerning markers, Melanie." Her voice was gentle but clinical. "I'd like to order additional tests."
The tests took hours—X-rays, MRIs, more blood draws than I could count. By the time Dr. Wong called me back into her office, the sun was setting outside the windows.
"I'm afraid I have difficult news," she said, removing her glasses. "The tests show stage IV bone cancer. It's metastasized throughout your skeletal system."
My breath caught. "Stage IV?"
"Yes." She leaned forward, her expression softening with compassion. "And complicating matters is your severe allergy syndrome. Many of the standard treatment options are unavailable to you because of potential reactions."
"How long?" My voice sounded distant to my own ears.
"Three to six months, depending on how aggressively we can treat without triggering your allergies." She reached across the desk, her hand warm on mine. "I know this is overwhelming, but we have options. Experimental treatments, pain management—"
I nodded numbly, clutching the papers she handed me. Terminal. The word echoed in my mind as I left the clinic.
The apartment was alive with voices and laughter when I returned home. Through the open door, I could see at least a dozen people mingling in our living room—colleagues from Lucien's research institute, judging by their conversation about grant proposals and publication deadlines.
Lucien stood at the center of it all, champagne flute in hand, looking more animated than I'd seen him in months. Carmen floated beside him, wearing a red dress that seemed designed to draw every eye in the room.
"Lucien," I called quietly as I approached. "I need to speak with you."
He glanced at me, irritation flashing across his features before he smoothed them into a practiced smile. "Can it wait, Melanie? We have important guests."
"It's about my doctor's appointment." I kept my voice low, but several people nearby fell silent, clearly listening. "I have something to tell you."
"For God's sake." Lucien's smile tightened. "Stop being so needy. These people have funded my research for years. Whatever it is can wait until they leave."
Carmen laughed, her hand resting possessively on Lucien's arm. "Maybe she's just looking for attention."
The room fell silent, all eyes on me now. I stood there, terminal diagnosis papers crumpled in my hand, as my husband publicly humiliated me in front of his colleagues.
"Fine," I whispered, backing away. "It can wait."
As I retreated to our bedroom, I heard the party resume behind me—laughter, clinking glasses, and Lucien's voice rising above it all, charming and confident as ever.
But something had shifted inside me. In that moment of public rejection, with death's sentence fresh in my mind, I realized that whatever time I had left would not be spent begging for scraps of attention from someone who had never truly loved me at all.
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