Chapter 1

My husband and coach hadn't answered my calls in five days. I was home, sick and nursing a career-ending injury, when I found him on another woman's social media, his arm draped around her shoulders, a smile on his face I hadn't seen in years.

The next time I saw him was at the hospital. She was with him, pregnant with his child.

When my bad ankle gave out and I collapsed, he ignored me on the floor to protect her. My medical reports scattered across the tiles, and she deliberately stomped on them with a smirk.

He didn't defend me. He just called me pathetic for making a scene.

"You got injured, Aria," he sneered, his voice cold. "You fell apart. You're a mess."

But that report she stomped on held my terminal diagnosis. I had months, maybe a year, left to live.

With nothing left to lose, I filed for divorce and booked a one-way ticket to see the world. My life was ending, but for the first time, I was going to live it for myself.

Chapter 1

The silence from Elliott was a betrayal far deeper than any words he could have spoken. My phone lay heavy in my hand, a cold rectangle in my feverish palm. Five days. Five days since he last answered my call, since he even bothered to send a text. Not five days since he last saw me, that was even longer. My coach. My husband.

My body ached. A dull, constant throb in my head pulsed with every beat of my heart. My throat felt like sandpaper. Chills ran down my spine, making me pull the thin blanket tighter around my shoulders, but it did little to ward off the cold. All I wanted was to hear his voice, to have him tell me it would be okay.

I scrolled through our chat history again. My last message, sent yesterday morning, read: "Elliott, are you okay? I'm not feeling well. My ankle is really hurting, and I have a fever. Call me when you can." No reply. Before that, another one: "Still no word. Please, just let me know you're safe." Silence. Then, three days ago: "I need you, Elliott. Where are you?" Nothing.

He had never been like this before. Not once in our five years of marriage, not even in the intense pressure of competition season. He was always there, meticulously planning my training, analyzing every jump, every spin. Now, it was just an empty void where his presence should have been. The silence wasn't just deafening; it was terrifying. It felt like something had been ripped away, leaving a gaping, bleeding hole in my chest.

My phone buzzed, vibrating against my fingertips. My heart leaped. Elliott? I snatched it up, my fingers fumbling. My breath caught in my throat.

It wasn't Elliott.

It was a friend request on social media. From someone I didn't know. Kelsie Holman. The name didn't ring any bells. I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen. Why would a stranger add me? My mind, clouded by fever and anxiety, immediately jumped to a dark place. Something was wrong.

I clicked on her profile picture. A young woman, maybe early twenties, with a cascade of bright blonde hair and eyes that held a hint of defiance. She was striking. My gaze dropped to her recent posts. There, unmistakably, was Elliott. Laughing. His arm casually draped around her shoulders. In a photo captioned, "Best coach ever!"

My blood ran cold. The fever that had been burning through me suddenly vanished, replaced by an icy dread that permeated every cell. My breath hitched. This couldn't be real. My fingers, trembling, zoomed in on the picture. Elliott's smile was wide and genuine, a smile I hadn't seen directed at me in weeks. His eyes, usually sharp and focused, were soft, admiring. Kelsie was looking up at him, a mischievous grin on her face.

It hit me like a physical blow. The missing calls, the distant attitude, the sudden neglect. It all clicked into place with a sickening thud. This wasn't just a stranger. This was the stranger. The one who had stolen my husband's attention, his time, his affection.

Rage, hot and blinding, surged through me. My fingers flew across the keyboard, typing a furious message to Kelsie. "Who are you? What are you doing with my husband? Where is he?" I sent it without thinking, a desperate plea mixed with a threat. Then another. "Answer me! What is going on?"

The messages sat there, unread. My chest tightened, a suffocating band of despair. No reply. Just like Elliott. The pattern was chillingly consistent.

I spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, the images of Elliott and Kelsie burned into my eyelids. Sleep was an impossible luxury. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his smile, her defiant gaze. The pain in my ankle, a constant reminder of my career-ending injury, was nothing compared to the agony in my heart.

Sometime before dawn, exhaustion finally claimed me. I drifted into a fitful slumber, but even that offered no escape. I dreamt of Elliott, laughing with Kelsie, holding her hand. When I tried to reach for him, he turned, his face cold and emotionless. "You're broken, Aria," he said, his voice echoing in the vast, empty space of my dream. "I need someone who can fly."

I woke with a gasp, my body drenched in sweat, a sob tearing its way from my throat. My head throbbed, a dull ache behind my eyes. Tears streamed down my face, hot and stinging. I reached out instinctively, searching for a hand to hold, a comforting presence. But the space beside me was empty, cold. My husband wasn't there. He hadn't been there for days. And it was clear now, he wouldn't be again.

My phone buzzed again, loudly this time, pulling me from the suffocating grip of my nightmare. Kelsie Holman. Another message. My breath hitched. I clicked it open, a morbid curiosity overriding the fear. More photos. Dozens of them.

Elliott and Kelsie at a cozy café, sharing a dessert. Elliott, teaching her a complex figure skating move, his hands gently guiding her waist. Elliott, laughing as she stumbled, then pulling her close, his expression tender. And then, the one that shattered me completely. Elliott, in our kitchen, cooking a meal. A meal that looked like the special Italian pasta he only ever made for me, on our anniversary, or after a big win. He was smiling, a soft, domestic smile I cherished. Kelsie was leaning against the counter, watching him, a satisfied smirk on her face.

He had promised me, years ago, that no one else would ever taste that pasta. That it was our dish, a symbol of our home, our love. The images were a cruel, visceral punch to the gut. Each photo was a fresh wound, twisting the knife deeper into my already shattered heart. It wasn't just a physical betrayal; it was a desecration of every memory, every promise we had ever made.

My hands shook so violently I almost dropped the phone. Hot, angry tears blurred my vision. I typed, my fingers flying across the screen, a primal scream of rage and despair. "How could you? After everything we built, everything we promised each other! You destroyed us! You knew what that dish meant to me!"

Then, I added, my voice cracking, though she couldn't hear it. "Who are you to come into my life and tear it apart like this? Don't you have any shame? Any respect for a marriage?" The words vanished into the digital void, swallowed by the silence of her unread messages. It was as if I was screaming into an empty well, the echo of my own pain the only reply.