It hit me then: this house had never belonged to me.

I had lived here for five years—

washing his shirts, cooking his meals, sorting through his files—

a machine disguised as a wife, programmed to serve.

And even that title, wife, turned out to be nothing more than a

convenient lie.

Nova leaned against his chest, her face upturned, smiling.

Her lips brushed his jaw in a featherlight kiss.

“You once told me,” she murmured, “that after your surgery, you never

wanted to remember those dark days again.”

“Yes,” Lucas answered quietly, his gaze soft, almost tender—so tender I

barely recognized him.

“I just want to live again.”

For a moment, I nearly laughed.

Live again?

The only reason his heart still beat today was because I had spent those

endless nights begging, pleading, searching for a way to keep him alive.

I remembered that snowy night at the hospital—

the hallway lights going out one by one,

my knees pressed against the freezing tiles as I signed the

authorization form.

“Are you willing to donate part of your own tissue? The match rate is

low, but it might save him.”

I hadn’t hesitated.

Back then, I believed love meant giving away pieces of your heart—

even if it had to be cut out by hand.

But now, that same heart gave me no warmth at all.

“Me?”

Nova’s voice pulled me back from the memory.

She tilted her head, lips curling in that sugar-sweet, taunting smile.

“Do you think this dress is pretty? Lucas said this color reminds him of

spring—fresh, young, alive.”

Alive.

I almost laughed again.

So that’s what I was now—

an empty shell of the woman who once saved him.

“It’s pretty,” I said at last.

Then I lifted my head, meeting her gaze, my tone calm—almost gentle.

“But that color’s too bright. It’s not really suitable for being around

a heart patient. It might... excite his heartbeat.”

The air went still.

Nova’s smile froze on her lips.

Lucas’s brows drew together, a faint twitch betraying the discomfort he

didn’t want to show.

I looked at him and added, almost casually,

“Didn’t the doctor say your heart still can’t handle too much

stimulation?”

His expression shifted—subtle, but unmistakable.

That was the past he never wanted mentioned again—

the night of the failed heartbeat, the surgery that nearly ended him,

the same fear I had lived with for five long years.

He never thought I’d bring it up.

Not in front of her.

I stepped forward and gently picked up the coffee cup on the table.