She's Dead, Mr. Blackwood Please Don't Cry

"It's advanced."

Seraphina stared at the report. The paper was warm, the edges soft from the pressure of her fingers.

Gastric adenocarcinoma, stage four.

The words were black ink on a white page. Clinical. Final.

"There are treatment options," Dr. Miles Hayes said. He pushed a brochure across the polished desk. "Aggressive chemotherapy, targeted therapy. We can start immediately."

The air in the room was still. Outside the window, the New York sun was a brilliant, blinding white. Inside, a cold seeped into Seraphina's bones. Her stomach, the organ betraying her, gave a low, familiar churn.

She looked at Miles. He was trying to give her a word she no longer understood. Hope.

"No," she said. Her voice was a dry rasp. "No treatment."

The mask slipped. "Seraphina. We have to fight this. Think of your family."

Family.

The word landed like a stone.

A year ago. Rain against the penthouse windows. She was three months pregnant, a secret she was going to tell Damien that night. She'd slipped on a wet spot on the marble floor. A sudden, jarring fall.

Then the cramping started. A vicious, twisting pain.

She looked down. A bloom of red on the white fabric of her dress.

She had called him, her fingers trembling so hard she could barely dial.

"Damien, something's wrong. The baby..."

His voice was distant, stretched thin over the line. He was at a charity gala.

"Seraphina, I'm in the middle of something."

"Please," she sobbed, the pain stealing her breath. "I'm bleeding."

A pause. The sound of clinking glasses in the background.

Then, the words that had hollowed her out.

"Bianca's not feeling well. She thinks she's having a panic attack. I have to get her to the hospital. I'll call you back."

He never did.

She had taken a cab to the emergency room alone. Signed the consent forms for the D&C with a hand slick with her own blood. Lost their child under the cold lights of a hospital, with no one holding her hand.

The memory faded, leaving the room's chill in its place.

She managed a smile that didn't reach her eyes. A terrible, broken thing.

"I don't have a family anymore, Miles."

She stood, smoothing the front of her dress. A mechanical gesture. "Thank you for your time."

She walked out of his office, her back straight. She left the untouched brochure on his desk, a useless splash of color against the dark wood.

Outside, the city noise hit her. Sirens, horns, the roar of a thousand conversations. She pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over the contact at the top of her list.

Damien.

She pressed call. He answered on the third ring.

"What is it? I'm in a board meeting."

His voice was clipped.

The usual sting was a distant thing, cauterized by the words on the report.

"Damien Blackwood," she said, her voice even. "I want a divorce."

Silence. She could hear the faint voice of his assistant in the background. Then, a low, humorless chuckle.

"What new game are you playing, Seraphina?"

The line went dead.

The dial tone buzzed in her ear. A single tear, hot and sharp, traced a path down her cold cheek.

Miles away, Damien Blackwood tossed his phone onto the conference table. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

"Sir?" his assistant whispered.

Damien waved a dismissive hand. "Continue."

His mind was no longer on the quarterly projections. It was on his wife.

The moment the meeting ended, he loosened his tie and dialed another number. His voice, when he spoke, was transformed. Warm. Gentle.

"Hey. How about dinner tonight?"

The soft voice of Bianca Thorne answered. He smiled, the tension leaving his shoulders.

He wouldn't go home tonight. He would let Seraphina stew.

It was after midnight when he guided his Aston Martin into the private garage. He'd had dinner with Bianca, laughing in a way he never did at home.

He pushed open the heavy front door, braced for a confrontation.

Instead, he was met with silence.

And darkness.

A flicker of unease. He flipped a switch. The grand foyer flooded with light. The house was pristine. Silent as a tomb.

He walked through the downstairs rooms. Nothing. He went upstairs, his footsteps echoing on the marble. He pushed open the door to their master suite.

And then he saw it.

The walk-in closet was half-empty.

Her side was bare.

The rows of dresses, the shelves of shoes, the collection of handbags.

Gone.

He walked into the master bath. The marble countertop, usually cluttered with her creams and perfumes, was wiped clean.

Every last trace of her.

Vanished.

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