Chapter 2

Camille POV: The living room of our Boston penthouse was dead silent. Courtney looked at me like I had just told a joke. "Divorce?" He loosened his tie, his tone dripping with condescension. "Camille, what is it this time? How many times have you pulled this stunt over the last three years, and how did it end every single time?" I opened my mouth. I wanted to tell him that this wasn't a stunt. I was sick. So sick that I might not live past... "Blair's mother is in the late stages of cancer," Courtney cut in, his voice frigid. "Her only dying wish is to see her daughter have someone to rely on. Blair needs support right now. Just stay in your lane and don't make a mess of things." "You just be a good Mrs. Trevino. I won't touch your position." He made his infidelity sound so noble. I stood frozen for a second, and then a laugh slipped past my lips, my eyes burning red. Stage four cancer. Blair's mother had cancer, and it broke his heart so much that he spent every night by her side. His own wife had cancer, and he couldn't even spare a second to ask how I was doing. "What if..." I clenched my fingers, pressing down the dull ache in my abdomen, giving it one last try. "What if I was the one who was sick?" Courtney glanced at me, his brows furrowing in deep irritation. "Camille, faking an illness for sympathy is a cheap trick." "Don't try to copy Blair. You can't pull it off." The last shred of hope shattered into dust. I didn't say another word. I turned around, walked upstairs, and slammed the bedroom door shut. Minutes later, the roar of a V8 engine echoed from the driveway below. He left. I didn't even need to guess; he was heading straight to Blair's place. At two in the morning, my phone lit up. It was an Instagram update from Blair. We had followed each other back when she was handling some sports therapy protocols for the team—a detail I had completely forgotten about. The photo only showed a man's hand, knuckles distinct and prominent, tucking the blanket around someone in bed. On his wrist was the custom Patek Philippe I had given him for his birthday last year. The caption was just one line: Said he wouldn't come, but showed up at 2 AM anyway. I stared at that photo for a long time, long enough for the screen to go black on its own. Then, I forced myself up and went into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. The woman in the mirror looked pale and exhausted, but her eyes were clearer than they had been in years. I opened my laptop and emailed a Boston lawyer I had saved in my contacts three years ago, asking him to draft a divorce agreement. The lawyer replied quickly: Ms. Glenn, do you have any specific requests regarding asset division? The house, the cars, the shares in the franchise... I kept my face perfectly still and typed back calmly: I don't want anything. I didn't even want Courtney anymore, so why would I want any of that? Besides, walking away with nothing was the fastest way out. I didn't have much time left, and I certainly didn't have the energy to play his games. At four in the morning, the PDF hit my inbox. I printed it out. My knuckles turned white from how hard I gripped the pen as I signed my name, stroke by stroke. Camille Glenn. Not Mrs. Trevino. I slipped the wedding band off my ring finger and set it on the empty dining table. Then, I scraped the cold, untouched dinner and the unopened cake into the trash. Finally, fighting through the gnawing pain in my stomach, I packed just one single suitcase. Standing at the front door, I took one last look at the penthouse I had meticulously managed for the past three years. Whatever. Without looking back, I walked out. The next morning, I took a leave of absence from the lab, booked a local courier, and had the divorce papers sent to the front desk of Trevino Sports & Entertainment. Courtney never opened his own mail, so I put Arthur Hayes as the recipient. After watching the courier drive off, I checked the time. 9:40 AM. My palms were sweating against the steering wheel—I was even more nervous than when I received my terminal diagnosis. Today, there was something far more important than my divorce. The state correctional facility. The man who had once sworn to marry me was getting out of prison today.