Time in love

The courtroom always smelled the same—polished wood, ink, and silence pretending to be order. Ashford Elena Bliss stood at the center of it like she had been built for it. "Your Honour, the evidence clearly establishes that my client acted within reasonable bounds of—" She stopped mid-sentence. A sharp wave of dizziness cut through her like static. For half a second, the room tilted. Then it corrected itself. Elena blinked once. Twice. And continued speaking as if nothing had happened. "…reasonable bounds of lawful self-defense." Her voice remained steady. Controlled. Clean. No one noticed the c***k. No one ever did. By the time the judgment was delivered, the case was already hers. Muted approval from the bench. Quiet disappointment from opposing counsel. The familiar shuffle of papers that meant another victory for Ms. Ashford. Not "Miss Bliss." Never that. Only Ms. Ashford. Because Bliss sounded like something she had never been allowed to keep. Outside the Royal Courts of Justice, London was grey and indifferent. Elena stepped onto the pavement, coat fastened, posture perfect. Her heels struck the ground in a rhythm that matched control itself. Then— It happened again. Not dizziness this time. Pain. A sudden, tightening pressure in her chest that stole her breath without warning. She stopped walking. Just for a second. A passing taxi horn cut through the air. People moved around her without looking twice. Elena pressed a hand lightly against her coat. "I'm fine," she said under her breath. Not to anyone. To herself. And kept walking. Three days later, she sat in consultation room 4B at St. Anne's Private Medical Centre. White walls. Sterile light. A clock too loud for its size. Across from her sat Dr. Adrian Cole, a specialist whose expression had already decided the conversation before it began. Elena did not look nervous. She looked prepared. "Tell me," she said calmly, "what this is." A pause. Then— "It's stage four pancreatic cancer." Silence followed, but not the dramatic kind. Just absence. Elena did not move. "Confirm," she said. Dr. Cole nodded once. From the corner of the room, her legal assistant, Clara Whitmore, made a small sound she tried to suppress. Elena turned slightly. "Send the full medical report to my office," she said. Clara hesitated. "Ms. Ashford—" "I said to my office." Her voice did not rise. That was what made it final. Dr. Cole cleared his throat carefully. "Prognosis is approximately twelve months… give or take." Twelve months. Elena repeated it silently. Not as fear. As calculation. She left the hospital alone. Of course she did. The city outside was still moving—buses, rain, conversations that meant nothing to her anymore. For a moment, she stood under the hospital entrance. Not because she needed shelter. Because her body had not yet decided what to do with itself. Twelve months. It did not sound real. It sounded like a deadline given to someone else. Her hand tightened at her side. And then something inside her—something she had spent her entire life sealing shut—shifted. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough to let the truth through. She had built a life on control. And now time had stopped negotiating with her. That night, her penthouse in Kensington was too quiet. Elena removed her coat, placed her keys carefully on the marble counter, and stood still. No calls were made. No names were spoken. Not even her father's. There was nothing to say to a man who had never learned how to listen. Her reflection in the glass overlooked London—sharp, composed, untouchable. But now she knew. Nothing untouchable survives a countdown. Her phone lit up once. Then again. From Clara Whitmore. "Ms. Ashford, I wasn't sure if I should send this… a friend forwarded it. It's a novel called: 'Living Without Regret' by Beautiful Mountain Link attached." Elena stared at the screen for a long moment. Then she repeated the title in her mind. Living Without Regret. Something about it felt almost offensive. Almost necessary. Her finger hovered. And then— She opened it.