Thunderstorm

In a dimly lit bedroom at Crest Villa, Crobert.

After their intimate encounter, Brandon Watson brushed his lips against the small mole on Millie Bennett's chest softly, and then sat up.

He said in a detached voice, "Let's get a divorce."

Millie, still breathing hard from the encounter, turned to him slowly, a wild look of disbelief in her eyes.

They had been married for a year. What did he mean by suddenly saying he wanted a divorce?

"She has stomach cancer and has only six months left to live," Brandon said, lighting a cigarette.

The smoke rose in slow spirals around his face.

"Her final wish is to be my wife," he added, almost offhandedly.

Millie gawked at him, stunned. Silence spread across the room like mist.

The bedside lamp glowed faintly, casting long shadows across the wall, making them seem farther apart than they were.

Brandon glanced at her and gave a faint frown.

"It's only to comfort her," he explained. "We'll remarry after six months. She won't be here long, Millie."

His voice was steady, almost detached, like someone passing along a message that didn't concern him.

Millie watched Brandon wordlessly, her eyes fixed on his profile.

He spoke like his words were instructions, not suggestions.

Their relationship had always been one-sided. She had chased it from the start, drawn in by youthful affection.

She had stayed by his side for years, moving through each rough season without letting go.

Millie still remembered that day, under the heavy rain that soaked them both, Brandon had stood between her and her stepfather, gripping a cracked stick, and said with fire in his voice, "Touch Millie again, and you'll regret it."

That moment had etched itself into her heart. Even when she was weak and bleeding, she saw him—unmoving, protective, fierce.

From that point on, she was his.

She loved him without pause, met his requests with everything she had, carrying them out more flawlessly than anyone else ever could.

He would always pat her head, light and warm, and say in a low voice, "You did so well, Millie."

But Brandon's praises never lasted, his kisses barely stayed, and whatever affection they shared always felt just out of reach. But Millie told herself it was just how he was.

Even when others called her naive, she stayed—devoted and trusting.

She had given seven years of her life to him.

A year earlier, Brandon's grandfather, Derek Watson, had fallen into poor health. The family, hoping to lift his spirits, decided Brandon should marry. Perhaps the joy of a wedding would give the old man something to hold on to.

So Brandon went on to marry Millie.

She thought it was finally their moment. But after the vows, something changed. He began to pull away. Sometimes, he looked at her like she was a stranger.

"Millie, are you listening?" Brandon scowled as he caught the far-off look in Millie's eyes.

"Does it have to be like this?" she asked softly.

He didn't answer. Instead, he said, "She's going through so much, Millie."

Millie's chest tightened. "And what about me?"

Brandon didn't answer right away. His eyes, dark and steady, flickered with a trace of impatience.

Then, after about three seconds, he said, "Millie, she's dying. Maybe you don't know, but she's in love with me. Because we were married, and she didn't want to hurt you, she never let things go too far between us. Even when I tried to make it up to her, she never let me. She's a good person. Please, let her have this. Don't make me think you're being heartless."

His words, spoken so calmly, pierced her more than if he had shouted.

So in Brandon's eyes, a woman in love with a married man, who promised to hold back but never really let go, was a saint.

And a wife who simply wanted to keep her husband to herself was heartless.

Millie stared at his face. The same face she had fallen for—intense eyes, prominent nose, beautiful lips.

When had things started to crumble?

Maybe it was the day the woman showed up.