The Withering of Love

"Ms. Spencer, your condition is extremely rare. Without treatment soon, it could be life-threatening."

The doctor handed Yanny Spencer a diagnostic report confirming Kallmann syndrome. "I'm sorry—our capabilities here are limited. I've heard there are treatment options in Novaria. You need to discuss this with your family and make a decision quickly."

Yanny took the thick stack of reports. Her fingertips wouldn't stop trembling.

She hesitated for a long time before dialing her husband, Ethan Smith.

The phone rang and rang. Just as she was about to give up, he picked up. The background was noisy.

"What is it?" Impatient.

Before she could speak, a woman's voice drifted through the line—soft, intimate. "Ethan, can I wear your bathrobe?"

Her heart dropped.

"Go ahead," Ethan told the woman. Then, to Yanny: "I'm busy. Hanging up."

The line went dead.

Ethan was a germaphobe. He never let anyone touch his things.

Now he was letting this woman wear his bathrobe. That said everything.

Yanny stood motionless, phone in hand, feeling nothing but exhaustion.

In three years of marriage, this wasn't even close to the first time.

Theirs was a business arrangement. When her grandfather told her Ethan would be her husband, she'd been secretly thrilled. She'd carried a quiet crush on him for years. Marrying him was something she hadn't dared dream of.

But married life wasn't a fairy tale. It was the beginning of a nightmare.

For three years, Ethan had been cold and distant while being linked to one woman after another. Everyone in their social circle whispered that she was Mrs. Smith in name only.

He never tried to hide his affairs. Whenever Yanny confronted him, he'd look at her with that same disdainful smirk. "Yanny, this is a business marriage. You're overstepping."

The pain had dulled into numbness long ago.

She knew exactly what he was doing. Humiliating her. Deliberately.

Yanny came home defeated.

The moment she walked in, she found her mother-in-law, Bianca Johnson, sitting on the living room sofa with a thunderous expression.

"Finally." Bianca threw several photos onto the coffee table. "Look at this mess. You can't even keep your own husband in check. Is this how you act as Mrs. Smith? Useless."

Yanny glanced down. Intimate shots of Ethan and a young woman on the deck of a private yacht. The woman was wearing his dark gray silk bathrobe—the one he always wore—captured perfectly by the paparazzi.

Bianca's gaze was ice. "I don't care what it takes. Make this disappear. Ethan is about to lead a major overseas acquisition. No negative press. Not now. It cannot affect the stock price or his image."

Yanny lowered her head. "I understand, Mom."

Every time. Every scandal. Bianca never blamed her son. She dumped it all on Yanny.

"I still don't understand why Grandmother insisted on you as her granddaughter-in-law," Bianca muttered with open contempt. "Clearly good for nothing."

She got up and left.

Yanny picked up the photos for a closer look.

When she saw the woman's face clearly, her chest tightened.

She knew her. Maisie Brown. Ethan's first love.

She was back in the country.

Yanny scrolled through the online comments. They were almost uniformly gushing.

[Ms. Brown and Mr. Smith are such a perfect couple. Together since school—he even chartered an entire yacht for her.]

[Right? I heard he got married, but I don't buy it. He loves Ms. Brown too much to marry someone else.]

Since marrying Ethan, Yanny had rarely heard him acknowledge their relationship in public. As if she wasn't worthy of the title. Most media outlets still believed he was single, waiting for Maisie to come back.

Every entertainment section was running the same story: the CEO of the Smith Group reunited with his first love on a yacht. Old flame rekindled. In every photo, Maisie was beaming, nestled against him.

And Ethan was looking at her with a tenderness Yanny had never once seen directed at herself.

So he wasn't cold by nature. He'd simply saved all his warmth for Maisie.

Yanny's heart sank, slow and heavy.

She'd only learned about Maisie after the wedding. Ethan's grandmother, Cleo Williams, had opposed the relationship. Maisie had left the country in a fury, and Ethan had resented Yanny for it ever since.

The other scandals had been casual flings. Meaningless.

Maisie was different. This time, he was serious.

It was late when Ethan came home.

He saw the living room light still on, Yanny on the sofa, and frowned. "Why are you still up?"

She pushed the photos across the table. "Your mother wants me to handle this."

He glanced at them, his frown deepening. "Just play your part as the nominal Mrs. Smith. Don't meddle in things that don't concern you."

Yanny looked up, eyes steady on his. "This time it's real, isn't it?"

"None of your business."

He stripped off his jacket and walked straight to the bathroom.

Yanny shook her head. Out of habit, she picked up his jacket to have it sent for cleaning. Three years she'd done this—tending to his every need like the most devoted housekeeper. No gratitude. Only mockery. He loved to remind her she'd do anything to stay Mrs. Smith.

She was tired. So tired. The heartbreak had calcified into something dull and heavy.

Then she saw it. A lipstick stain on the collar. She didn't need to guess whose it was.

The image from the photos flashed through her mind—Maisie pressed against him, his arm around her—and Yanny's eyes burned red.

Her phone rang. The hospital.

"Ms. Spencer, I've contacted the hospital in Novaria. The professor has reviewed your report and agreed to take your case, but his schedule is extremely full. This may be your only window for the foreseeable future. I hope you'll consider it soon..."

Yanny stared at the lipstick stain on Ethan's collar.

Then she looked up.

"There's nothing to consider. I'll go."