The roses on the dining table are wilting. I bought them myself yesterday — red, because Marcus used to say red roses meant forever — and arranged them in the crystal vase his mother gave us as a wedding gift. Three years ago today. My birthday, too, though no one remembers that part anymore. The house is silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of my own breathing, which has gotten shallower over the past week. I press my fingers to my temple where the headache lives now, constant and dull, like something is pressing against the inside of my skull. Seven days. That's what Dr. Reeves said this morning, her face carefully neutral as she slid the scan across her desk. Seven days, maybe ten if I'm lucky, before the tumor in my brain stem shuts everything down. Inoperable. Aggressive. The kind of thing that doesn't care about wedding anniversaries or thirtieth birthdays or the fact that I finally got the promotion at the library I've been working toward for two years. I haven't told Marcus yet. I meant to, tonight, over the dinner I spent three hours making — his favorite, braised short ribs with roasted vegetables and the chocolate torte from the bakery on Clement Street. I even bought champagne, the good kind, because if I only have seven days left I want at least one of them to matter. But Marcus isn't home. I check my phone again. 9:47 PM. No missed calls. No texts. I sent him three messages between six and eight, each one a little more worried than the last, and got nothing back. The food is cold now. I covered everything with foil an hour ago and put it in the fridge, the champagne back in the wine cooler, the candles blown out. The cake sits on the counter, untouched, "Happy Anniversary" written across the top in dark chocolate script. I hear his car in the driveway at 10:03. Relief floods through me so fast it makes me dizzy. I stand up from the couch, smoothing down the green dress I bought for tonight, the one that makes my eyes look brighter and hides how much weight I've lost in the past month. My hands are shaking. I don't know if it's the tumor or the nerves or the fact that I'm about to tell my husband I'm dying. The front door opens. Marcus walks in, and he's not alone. The woman behind him is younger than me — mid-twenties, maybe, with long dark hair and the kind of effortless beauty that comes from good genes and expensive skincare. She's wearing a black dress that probably costs more than my monthly salary, and she's laughing at something Marcus just said, her hand on his arm. They both stop when they see me. "Elena." Marcus's voice is flat. Not surprised, exactly. Not guilty. Just... inconvenienced. "You're still up." I can't speak. My brain is trying to process what I'm seeing, but it's like the signals aren't connecting properly. The tumor, maybe. Or shock. "I made dinner," I finally manage. "It's our anniversary." "Right." He doesn't look at me. "I forgot." The woman — the girl — shifts uncomfortably, but she doesn't let go of his arm. "This is Violet," Marcus says, and his tone is casual, like he's introducing a colleague. "Violet, this is Elena. My wife." Violet gives me a small, apologetic smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "It's nice to meet you." "We're going upstairs," Marcus says, and he's already moving toward the staircase, Violet in tow. "Don't wait up." I stand frozen in the hallway as they climb the stairs together. My stairs. To my bedroom. The one Marcus and I have shared for three years, the one where he used to hold me at night and promise me forever. I should say something. I should scream, throw something, demand an explanation. But my body won't move. My tongue feels thick in my mouth. The headache is getting worse, a sharp spike of pain behind my right eye. I hear the bedroom door close. I hear it lock. And then, a few minutes later, I hear other sounds. Sounds that make my stomach turn, that make the champagne I drank earlier rise in my throat. I press my back against the hallway wall and slide down to the floor, my green dress pooling around me. Something warm drips onto my lip. I touch it with my finger and it comes away red. My nose is bleeding. I tip my head back against the wall and close my eyes, listening to my husband have sex with another woman in our bed on our anniversary, and I think: seven days. I have seven days left to live, and this is how I'm spending the first one.