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Chapter 1
In the third year of my relationship with Logan Walker, he was diagnosed with cancer.
To help cover the cost of his treatment, I worked three jobs every day.
Three months later, his condition worsened. I quit everything, determined to stay by his side through the end.
That’s when I heard his attending physician chatting inside the hospital room.
“Man, Logan is something else. The wealthiest guy in the city playing broke for three whole years just to mess with Emily.”
“Now that his old flame is back from overseas, he fakes his own illness to ghost her.”
“What’s he going to do if she sees him in a business magazine after his so–called funeral?”
Logan’s voice was calm, casual.
“She’ll never find out. Emily’s too naive.”
I stood outside the door, frozen like someone had opened a freezer beneath my feet.
In my hand was a medical report. My fingertips had gone cold.
His cancer was fake.
But mine wasn’t.
I had terminal stomach cancer. I was actually dying.
The voices inside the room continued.
Dr. James Carter stretched his legs out on the guest chair and chuckled.
“She’s that kind of girl. Even if she got played, loving you is probably the biggest thing that’s ever happened to her. It’s a win, honestly.”
“You really went all out just to provoke Grace into coming back. You roped Emily into this for three years just to push her buttons.”
“Now look at you. Faking death, making me play along with your act every single day.”
Logan let out a quiet laugh.
“You get to watch the drama up close. What’s not to enjoy?”
James shrugged..
“Not bad, I’ll admit. But these private rooms cost a fortune. I give it a week before Emily can’t keep up the rent and gets kicked out.”
Logan didn’t blink.
“She’ll hold on. She always does.”
I stood at the door, my fingers trembling.
The paper in my hand was damp with sweat.
It was the gastroscopy report I picked up earlier from the small community clinic. I had
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gone there last week after days of nausea, lack of appetite and stomach pain.
I didn’t want to worry Logan, so I went quietly. The clinic was far out and covered by insurance. I’d made the appointment late at night after my third shift.
That morning, I had gotten up early to collect the results.
Stage four stomach cancer.
The door to the hospital room opened.
Dr. Carter stepped out and looked me up and down.
“You’re late today.”
I tried to speak clearly, but my voice came out low and hoarse.
“I made soup this morning.”
“Well, go on in. He’s waking up.”
He passed by without a second glance.
I didn’t move.
I kept thinking about what the older female doctor had said when she handed me the
report.
“My advice? Go to a major hospital for confirmation.”
“You’re so young. How did you let your body get like this?”
Yes.
How?
When Logan was supposedly diagnosed, I didn’t sleep for nights.
I pulled all my savings, visited every hospital I could and booked consultations, desperate for treatment plans.
Cancer doesn’t come cheap.
Chemo, medications, special diets.
He needed a single room, so I started working nights at a bar. Wiped tables by day and poured drinks until sunrise just so he could rest without sharing space with strangers.
His condition had gotten worse and I had slept less and less.
Three months passed.
And I was falling apart.
But today I learned what “dying in hiding” really meant.
His love was fake. His sickness, fake.
But my illness was real.
I was really dying.
“Emily, is that you?”
Logan’s voice came from the room. Muffled. Familiar.
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