Chapter 1

Prologue

I was Aaron's assistant, and I was his secret lover.

Everyone mocked me, whispering that I was desperately clinging to him just to become Mrs. Hayes. But only I knew the truth: I owed his family a life.

Years ago, Aaron’s younger brother, Luke, died saving mine.

Ever since, I stayed by Aaron’s side, enduring every humiliation he threw at me, just to repay a debt that could never truly be settled.

Until the day I was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The doctors gave me only a few months to live.

When the day finally comes that I disappear for good, Aaron... will you ever regret what you did to me?

Serena’s POV

I had been with Aaron for years. I was his personal assistant by day and his woman by night.

Over the years, I drank for him at dinners, took his hits, and stood as a shield between him and other women, asking only that he treat me like a human being in front of others.

Instead, he made me drop to my knees and gather his scattered prayer beads, humiliating me in front of a whole table of high-profile clients.

I never left because Luke had given his life for mine.

The Hayes family blamed me for his death. I accepted that, and I spent every day trying to make amends.

Until this morning, when I found out my illness was terminal. I had only months left.

I refused treatment. I still intended to stay by Aaron’s side, using whatever time I had left to settle my debt.

When his call came, I folded up the lab report, put it away, and rushed to the private club to drink in his place.

Four empty glasses later, the burning alcohol made cold sweat bead on my forehead. Then, Aaron spoke.

"Pick them up."

The string of wooden beads in Aaron’s hand snapped, scattering across the floor.

The room was full of his business associates, people who just a minute ago were praising his incredible luck.

I crouched down.

"Wipe every single bead clean," Aaron said, swirling his glass without even looking at me. "Then string them back together."

Someone in the corner gasped quietly.

"Mr. Hayes..."

"It’s about rules," Aaron said smoothly. "Sometimes you have to put on a show."

I sank down onto the marble floor, the icy stone cutting straight into my kneecaps.

The beads had rolled everywhere. Some were trapped under the sofa legs; others lay right beside expensive leather shoes.

One by one, I gathered them into my palm, using my own sleeve to buff away every speck of dust.

Then, I carefully fastened the restrung bracelet back around his wrist.

Everyone was stiff at first, but then someone let out a nervous chuckle, followed by a wave of laughter.

A few men slapped the table, and someone took out their phone to take a video, only to be quickly pulled down by a friend.

"Mr. Hayes really knows how to train them."

"Ms. Lewis certainly has an incredible temper."

People in high society whispered that I was holding out to become the next Mrs. Hayes—that the longer I endured, the bigger my greed grew.

When we first got together, he used to trap me against the door just like that, eyes full of laughter, murmuring, "Serena, why are you always so good?"

But he had changed.

All the drinks I downed for him, all the verbal abuse I took in his place—to him, it was only worth being called "a show for others."

Picking up the last bead, I stood up. My knees were completely numb.

As the gathering grew rowdy, someone took advantage of the noise to lean in close, lowering his voice: "Ms. Lewis, my company could use someone like you. Any position you want, and I'll triple your current salary. You can start tomorrow."

I shook my head.

"Why?" the man pressed, clearly baffled. "He humiliates you like this in public, and you're still staying?"

"I owe him," I said quietly. "I'll stay until the debt is paid. Then I'll leave."

He opened his mouth to urge me further, but Aaron’s cold gaze swept over us, and the man shrank back into his seat.

He didn't know what kind of debt I owed. Nor did he know where I had been this morning.

This morning, I was sitting in an oncologist's office, staring at the final line of the report: Late-stage.

The doctor had turned the scan toward me, pointing at the shadowy mass on my stomach wall, explaining the metastasis and the narrowing surgical window.

"There's still a chance," the doctor said gently. "If you fight it aggressively, don't give up on yourself. You're still young."

"I know," I said softly. "But I'm not doing treatment."

"What?" The doctor paused, his pen freezing. "You need to start aggressive therapy immediately."

I folded the paper, tucked it back into my bag, and simply asked how much time I had left.

The doctor tapped his pen twice on the desk, silent.

"Doctor," I prompted him.

"At this rate... a few months," he said, looking away. "With proper treatment, it could be longer."

I thanked him and pushed open the door.

At the self-service kiosk at the end of the hall, I printed out the billing breakdown, slipped it into my bag, and didn't even look at the numbers under the treatment column.

Leaning against the wall, I stood there for a long time, quietly sorting through what little I had left to do in this life.

I had originally planned to repay the debt until the day my body simply gave out.

The moment I stepped out of the hospital entrance, my phone buzzed in my bag, displaying Aaron's name.

"Get to the club right now," he said against a wall of loud background noise. "I need you here."

I glanced at the folded lab reports in my hand, gave a quiet agreement, and hailed a cab.

I didn't say a single word about my illness. I never planned to.

The gathering finally ended late in the night.

Aaron’s car pulled up to the club entrance, and he offered to drive me back.

Half of the lights in my apartment stairwell were broken. I stamped my feet twice, but only the fixture overhead flickered to life.

Suddenly, he pinned me against the apartment door, one hand propped beside my ear, leaning in dangerously close.

His breath smelled of alcohol mixed with expensive perfume—the signature scent Samantha always wore.

"Serena," he said, staring down at me, "I treat you like garbage. Why haven't you left?"

I tilted my face up, offering no reply.

I had heard this question countless times. Every single time, he asked when I was going to leave.

If he had ever been willing to listen, I would have told him long ago.

"I asked you a question," he said, gripping my chin. "Why haven't you walked away?"

"Leave?" I croaked, my voice so raspy it hardly sounded like me. "Where would I go?"

"Haven't you always wanted to leave?" He sneered. "Or do you still think I'm beneath you?"

I let out a faint, hollow laugh, offering no defense.

The version of Serena in his head wasn't someone I recognized, and I had no power to change his mind.

A surge of blood welled up from my chest, hitting the back of my throat. I forced it down, the metallic burn scraping my throat raw.

Right then, the phone in his pocket buzzed.

The screen lit up with a single name: Samantha.

Instantly, he let go, stepped back, and answered it. His tone softened into a warmth I had never once heard during all my years beside him.

"Yeah, I'm heading up right now."

He hung up, turned on his heel, and left without another look.

The steady click of his leather shoes echoed down the stairwell, out the glass doors, and into his car, before fading into complete silence.

With my back against the cold door, I slowly slid down to the floor.

So he was still capable of speaking like that.

Once upon a time, I thought that warmth belonged to me.

The mouthful of blood I had forced down could no longer be contained. I vomited it onto the linoleum—hot, thick, and dark.

My vision went pitch-black, and I collapsed.

In the darkness of unconsciousness, memories from those years surfaced one by one.