The silence in the room was heavier than the darkness gathering in the corners. It was the kind of silence that hummed, a low frequency that vibrated in Mark’s teeth and rattled his bones. The only sound breaking it was the shallow, wet rattle of Elena’s breathing—a countdown clock he couldn’t stop, couldn’t pause, couldn’t rewind.
Mark stood beside the bed, his tuxedo shirt rumpled, the top three buttons undone, the bow tie hanging loose around his neck like a noose. They had been married for exactly six hours.
The “honeymoon suite” was actually the master bedroom of their small, drafty apartment, transformed with fairy lights and candles that had long since burned down to wax puddles. The smell of lavender and antiseptic hung in the air—the scent of their marriage.
He looked down at her. Elena looked like a porcelain doll that had been dropped and glued back together by shaky hands. Her skin was translucent, the blue veins beneath mapping out a geography of pain he couldn’t navigate.
Mark’s fists clenched at his sides. They were clenched so hard his fingernails bit into his palms, drawing blood that no one would see. The anger was a physical thing, a hot coal swallowed whole. He wasn’t just angry at the cancer. He wasn’t just angry at the universe for being cruel. He was angry at the helplessness. He was a man who fixed things. He was an architect; he built structures, he reinforced foundations, he made things stand against the wind. But here, looking at the love of his life crumbling like dry sand, he was useless.
“Mark…”
The sound was barely a ghost of her voice.
His head snapped up. His eyes, rimmed with red and wide with desperation, locked onto hers. Her eyes were glassy, struggling to focus, but the brown warmth he fell in love with five years ago was still there, flickering.
“I’m here, El. I’m right here,” he choked out, his voice cracking. He leaned over the bed, his shadow falling over her like a shroud.
Elena’s hand, frail and trembling, lifted from the sheets. It moved slowly, swimming through the heavy air, reaching for him. He grabbed it immediately, enveloping her cold, thin fingers in his large, warm hands. He tried to transfer his life force into her, willing his pulse to jump through his skin and restart hers.
“Don’t speak,” he whispered. “Save your strength. The nurse is coming back in an hour with the new pain meds. You just… you just rest, Mrs. Reynolds.”
He tried to smile when he said her new name, but it looked more like a grimace.
A faint, sad smile touched her lips. “No time,” she breathed. “Mark, listen.”
“I’m listening.”
“The treatment…” she paused, her chest heaving with the effort of inhaling. “The experimental trial… in Zurich.”
Mark nodded vigorously. “We’re going. As soon as you’re stable. I sold the firm’s share. I sold the car. I have the money, El. We have the money.”
That had been their hope. The beacon in the storm. The Zurich Protocol. It was expensive, experimental, and their last shot. Mark had liquidated everything he owned, begged, borrowed, and nearly stole to get the cash together.
Elena closed her eyes, tears leaking from the corners. “You… you didn’t need to sell the firm.”
“Of course I did,” Mark said, confused, stroking her hair. “Money is paper. You are… you are everything. I’d burn the city down to get you on that plane.”
“No,” she whispered, and the strength in her voice suddenly surged, a final flare before the end. Her eyes snapped open, piercing him. “Mark. There is no Zurich.”
Mark froze. The room seemed to tilt. “What?”
“The money,” she gasped, her grip on his hand tightening with surprising force. “I didn’t… I didn’t apply for the trial. I knew… six months ago. The doctor told me… nothing would work.”
Mark pulled back slightly, the blood draining from his face. “El, what are you saying? We’ve been planning this. I’ve been talking to the doctors…”
“You were talking to the doctors I hired,” she confessed, the tears flowing freely now. “Actors. Friends of my sister.”
“Why?” The word came out as a roar, then a whisper. “Why?”
“Because you were drowning, Mark,” she sobbed. “Your debt. The firm failing. Your parents’ house… the bank was going to take it all. You were going to lose your legacy. You were going to lose yourself trying to save me.”
Mark stared at her, horror dawning on him. The clenched fists at his side tightened until his knuckles turned the color of bone.
“So you… you lied?”
“I took the money you raised,” she rasped. “It’s not in a medical account. It’s in a trust. For you. To save the firm. To save your parents’ home. To build… what you were meant to build.”
“You put a price on your life?” Mark’s voice shook with a mixture of fury and agony. “You decided that my career was worth more than your life?”
“My life was over anyway!” she cried out, a weak, reedy sound. “I chose… I chose to leave you something other than grief and debt. I chose to save you.”
“You didn’t save me!” Mark shouted, the sound echoing off the walls. He loomed over the bed, the image from the prompt freezing in time—low angle, fists clenched, eyes desperate. “You robbed me! You robbed me of the chance to fight for you! I didn’t want the firm, Elena! I didn’t want the house! I wanted you!”
“I wanted you to have a future,” she whispered, her voice fading rapidly now. The exertion was taking its toll. The light behind her eyes was dimming.
“Not like this,” Mark wept, dropping to his knees beside the bed, burying his face in the mattress. “Not like this.”
“Mark…” Her hand reached out one last time, weakly patting his head. “Build something beautiful. Promise me.”
He couldn’t breathe. The betrayal and the love were twisting inside him like a knife. She had manipulated his entire reality for six months. She had let him hope, let him fight, let him scramble, all while knowing she was walking toward a cliff he couldn’t bridge. She had died so he could be rich. She had died so he could be successful.
It was the most selfless, selfish thing anyone had ever done to him.
“Promise me,” she wheezed. The rattle was louder now. Continuous.
Mark looked up. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, seeing something he couldn’t.
“I…” Mark choked. He wanted to scream at her. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to tell her he would burn the money.
But as he watched the light vanish from her eyes, as the chest he loved so dearly stopped rising, his fists slowly unclenched.
The screen of his life faded darker, just like the room.
“I promise,” he whispered into the silence.
He stood up, alone in the room. He walked to the window and looked out at the city lights. Somewhere in a bank account, there was enough money to build a skyscraper. Enough to save his legacy.
He looked down at his hands. They felt heavy. They felt like they belonged to a stranger.
He had the money. He had the future she wanted for him.
But as he looked back at the empty shell on the bed, Mark knew the truth. He was the poorest man in the world.
