The bathroom tile is cold against my knees, and there's blood on my hand. I stare at the crimson smeared across my palm, the metallic taste still coating my tongue. The coughing fit came out of nowhere—violent, choking, impossible to stop. And then I felt something warm and wet hit my hand. This isn't the first time. But it's the worst. My fingers shake as I reach for the towel, wiping away the evidence. The mirror shows a woman I barely recognize anymore. Eliza Monroe, thirty-two years old, wife of Vincent Harlow for three years. Hollow cheeks. Dark circles. Skin that looks like paper stretched too thin. When did I start looking like a ghost? The envelope sits on the marble counter where I left it this morning, still unopened. Dr. Ashford's office called four times before I finally went in yesterday. The nurse handed me this sealed letter with a look that said everything I needed to know before I even left the building. I pick it up now, my hands steadier than they should be. The paper tears easily. Inside, the words are clinical and precise: *Stage three lymphoma. Aggressive progression. Treatment options limited at this stage. Prognosis: six months, possibly less.* Six months. I read it twice, then a third time, waiting for something to break inside me. But there's only a strange, distant calm. Maybe I've known for longer than I want to admit. The exhaustion that never lifts. The weight loss Vincent hasn't noticed. The way my body has been trying to tell me something is fundamentally wrong. Laughter drifts up from downstairs—Vincent's voice, rich and warm in a way it hasn't been with me in over a year. And then another voice. A woman's. Low and intimate, the kind of tone you don't use with someone you just met. I've heard that voice here before. Three times this month, always when Vincent thinks I'm asleep or out. Always followed by the sound of the study door closing, the lock clicking into place. I fold the letter carefully and slip it into my pocket. The blood on the sink has already started to dry.