His Regretted Wife

"Ms. Andrews, your test results indicate acute lymphoblastic leukemia, and it's advanced. A bone marrow match... we likely won't have enough time."

Angela Andrews stood holding the report, fingertips trembling.

She remained in the hospital corridor until her legs went numb, then made her way home in a daze.

She didn't turn on the lights. Barefoot, she crossed the cold marble floor, each step slow and uncertain, until she reached the couch and folded herself into the corner of it, letting the darkness close around her.

Her phone screen flared to life. A news alert. Below the headline, a photograph.

The city's most iconic skyscraper had been lit up with enormous luminous letters: Lucas Cora Tower.

[Breaking: The Conway Group today officially completed its acquisition and renaming of the downtown Financial Center. Sources confirm that the city's tallest building will now bear the names of Conway Group CEO Lucas Conway and his key partner Cora Hayworth in a joint tribute, widely hailed as a romantic gesture uniting an industry legend with a rising tech star.]

Angela's eyes burned. Something inside her chest felt scooped out, hollow and perfectly still.

With shaking fingers, she tapped the article open. A second photo loaded.

Lucas in a perfectly tailored black suit, Cora luminous at his side. He'd tilted his head slightly toward her, and even the sharp lines of his profile seemed to soften. Cora gazed up at the tower, eyes bright with surprise and unmistakable wonder.

The comments had already spiraled into thousands.

[He literally bought a skyscraper and renamed it after her. Someone tell me this isn't a Wattpad plot.]

[Cora must have saved the entire universe in a past life. Her career is elite, her man is more elite, and he just carved both their names into the skyline.]

[This is what equal-partnership love looks like. The way Mr. Conway looks at Ms. Hayworth—ship of the century.]

Each comment landed like a small, precise needle.

Cora and Lucas were a perfect match by every measure. So what did that make her? She was his wife. Legally, the only one. And here she sat, watching her husband light up the entire city for someone else.

Angela pressed her fingers to the corner of her eye. The skin was dry. When pain reached a certain depth, tears simply stopped coming.

Late that night, the electronic lock beeped.

Lucas stepped inside and hit the lights. He was loosening his tie when his hands paused—he hadn't expected to find her sitting in the dark.

He frowned. "Why are you still up?"

Angela didn't move. Her gaze rested unfocused on the floor. "You promised you'd come with me to the hospital today."

Something flickered across his expression. He draped his jacket over the couch, tone edged with impatience. "Something urgent came up. I couldn't leave."

"I saw the news." She finally looked up, face pale, the overhead light reflecting cold in her eyes. "'Lucas Cora Tower.' Quite a statement."

His frown deepened. "Cora's team achieved a breakthrough. The renaming was a business move, a publicity play. Don't read into it."

Angela's mouth curved into something that barely qualified as a smile—no warmth, only the tired shape of self-mockery.

She let it go. "You haven't asked about my results."

Lucas seemed to remember, almost as an afterthought. "What did the doctor say?"

"Nothing serious." She lowered her eyes, lashes casting a thin shadow across her cheek. "Just some anemia."

He stepped closer and drew her into his arms, voice gentling. "Tell Anna to make you some bone broth. Take care of yourself."

His arms were warm and broad. Angela felt none of it.

A faint scent reached her—jasmine, delicate and distinctive. Her gaze drifted to his shoulder.

A single strand of hair clung to the fabric. Chestnut-colored, loosely curled.

Cora had hair exactly like that.

It wound itself around her heart and pulled tight. The breath left her in a slow, involuntary stutter.

"Lucas." Barely above a whisper. "Right now, while you're holding me—who are you thinking about?"

The arms around her went rigid for a fraction of a second.

Then he let go. Irritation moved across his face. "Angela. What is going on with you tonight?"

"What's going on with me?" She laughed—soft, desolate. "Ask yourself honestly. Who are you really holding onto? Am I imagining things?"

No hysteria. No breaking point. Just each word arriving quietly, the way a dull blade works—not with speed but with pressure.

Lucas's expression hardened. He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. "Enough. If you're this insecure, we'll have a child. My grandmother's been pushing for it. Once there's a baby, maybe you'll finally settle down."

Angela stared at him. Then she started to laugh, and kept laughing, even as her eyes went red at the rims.

She would never have a child. Not in the time she had left. Not ever.

She shoved him back with both hands. When she looked at him, there was something in her eyes that had never been there before—a finality so complete it looked almost like peace.

"Lucas, I'm done." She stood, her slight frame swaying faintly, but her voice didn't waver. "I want a divorce."

The word landed like something dropped from a great height.

Every trace of warmth drained from his face. His eyes went dark, and each word pulled tight against his teeth. "Angela. What are you pulling? When we got married, I made myself clear—no public announcement, no interference in each other's lives."

"What do you mean by acting like this?"