For seven years, I was Julian Crawford's wife and the person holding up his billion-dollar company from behind the scenes. Then his first love came back. Julian gave Mia and her daughter the time and protection he used to give our family. Tonight, our five-year-old son could barely breathe through an asthma attack. Julian ignored every call because he was at Mia's daughter's birthday party. I left the hospital with a terminal brain cancer diagnosis in my hand. Julian was planning Mia's century wedding. I had very little time to decide what kind of gift he deserved.
Noah woke me with his coughing at eleven-forty. It was the wet, scraping sound I had learned to hear in my sleep, the sound that meant the inhaler might not be enough tonight. I was already out of bed when the monitor lit up. His little room smelled of vapor rub and fear. My son lay in his dinosaur sheets, back arched, fists clenched, fighting for air that would not come. "Mommy," he managed. "Can't—" I grabbed the inhaler from the nightstand. It hissed, and Noah's chest rattled as he tried to pull the medicine down. He coughed it out in a spray of tears, and the wheeze got louder instead of quieter. I dialed Julian. It rang. It rang. It rang. The call dropped into voicemail at the same moment Noah's lips started to go grey around the edges. I dialed again, and again, and by the fourt
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