Chapter 1
Quinley’s POV
The city lights flickered like restless fireflies beyond the glass walls of the penthouse. I had dimmed everything else—only the candles mattered now. Thirty-six in total. A soft, golden sea of wax and flame, each one standing for the months I had held onto this marriage. Thirty-six months of being Nikolai Adams, wife to a man whose presence had become as rare as love in a boardroom.
Tonight marked our third anniversary.
I had spent the day preparing. Not for him, not really. That was the lie I kept telling myself. No, I had done this for the ghost of who we were. The couple that danced barefoot in our old kitchen, who whispered dreams under hotel sheets before the world ever knew his name.
The rooftop terrace looked like something out of a romance film. Fairy lights curled around the iron banisters. Red roses bloomed from glass vases placed deliberately between plates of porcelain white. His favorite wine—Barolo, 2012—breathed beside the candlelight. The playlist hummed softly, strings and pianos playing our song on loop like it could summon him.
But the chair across from me was still empty.
8:45 PM.
He wasn’t coming.
I stared at the steak cooling on the plate, untouched. My hand gripped the wine glass, and my fingers trembled. I didn’t want to cry—not yet. There was still the tiniest, most foolish part of me that thought maybe his arrival would be dramatic. A bouquet of lilies, maybe. A rushed apology. The old Nikolai with stormy eyes and a hand at the small of my back.
But reality was quieter than heartbreak. There was no text. No call. No footsteps in the hallway.
Just silence. And flame. And me.
Or maybe he was stuck in his office with his useless model,the one I hated most,she was always on lingeries simply because she's the model, and Nikolai was always present for every shoot she had to do for the company ,this made me hate Cassidy.
A sharp pain twisted in my lower abdomen, and I hissed, curling forward slightly.
Not now. Not again.
I pressed my palm to my stomach, fingers clutching through the silk of my dress. The pain came in slow, cruel pulses—familiar, unwelcome visitors. They had started earlier that week, subtle at first. Dull aches. Tight flutters. Now they returned with their teeth bared.
I rose carefully, a wine glass in one hand, the other pressed to my middle. The dress felt too tight suddenly, the heels too cruel. I made it inside and leaned against the marble counter, breathing through the pain, through the fire rising in my gut.
The doctor had said it's cervical cancer and might also be inflammation. Scar tissue. The price of trying.
Three years of fertility treatments had left me carved and stitched and swollen. Hope had become a rotating door of clinics and hormone shots. Nothing worked. My womb was a hollow room no soul wanted to enter.
And Nikolai had stopped asking about the appointments long ago.
He didn’t understand what it felt like to measure your worth by a test strip. To wait for the blood, praying it wouldn’t come, only to cry in a bathroom when it did. Month after month, I watched women cradle their bumps while I held onto mine with nothing but faith.
I thought tonight would be different.
I thought maybe—just maybe—he’d remember what this day meant. The way we danced under a string of lanterns on our wedding night. The vows he whispered into my hair, promising forever.
But he forgot.
Or worse—he remembered, and still chose not to come.
I swallowed the wine like medicine, but the burn didn’t settle the ache. Another cramp seized me, sharper this time, and I doubled over, pressing both hands to the counter to keep from falling.
Tears slipped down my cheeks.
Not from the pain in my stomach. But from the one in my chest.
I had spent years keeping a brave face. Answering the press about our “private journey” to start a family. Smiling beside Cassidy, his prized model, while the world praised their chemistry and speculated about our quiet marriage.
I never imagined I’d be spending our third anniversary alone, clutching my stomach while my body rebelled and my heart quietly broke.
I slid to the floor, knees folding beneath the satin. The marble was cold. I welcomed it. Let it ground me.
A memory surfaced—one of the first nights I realized something was wrong.
Nikolai had come home late, reeking of whiskey and perfume I didn’t own. I had tried to talk to him about the new specialist I wanted to see, the experimental treatment that gave me hope. He kissed my forehead and said, “You’re trying too hard, Quinley, let's just get a surrogate,Maybe it’s not meant to be.”
Maybe I wasn’t meant to be,"A surrogate?,hell no"
The pain eased a little, and I laid my head against the cabinet door. My tears soaked the hem of my dress.
Somewhere outside, the city kept spinning. Cars honked. Laughter rang from restaurant balconies. The world didn’t stop just because mine was cracking.
No
I reached into the drawer and pulled out the white envelope I had tucked there earlier.
Inside was the anniversary card I wrote for him. Handwritten. Ink smudged. Hopeful.
I tore it in half.
Then again.
And again.
Until all that remained was paper confetti and a woman who had loved too hard for too long.
I stared at the slivers in my hands and whispered to the night, “Happy anniversary, Nikolai.”
Then I let the pieces fall.
The pain spread—radiating from deep inside, as if my body was revolting against me, breaking down everything I was. It wasn’t just the usual dull ache from missed cycles or failed treatments. This was different. Deeper. Meaner. It felt like something was tearing inside me.
I stumbled to the bathroom, nearly crashing into the doorframe. My legs were trembling, and when I looked into the mirror, the woman staring back at me didn’t look like me at all. Her face was pale, lips colorless, eyes rimmed with red from unshed tears. She looked... broken.
