June Parker POV.
"Mine."
His hot breath fanned over my skin as the word left his lips. His fingers trailed from my shoulder down to the curve of my chest, lingering at the V-line of my corset. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, my hands clutching the corset to keep it from slipping and revealing my bare breasts. His presence terrified me, yet it also ignited something twistedly sensual within me. His lips brushed against my neck, and the sensation was otherworldly, like a taste of heaven.
I wasn’t some trembling virgin, but somehow, he made it feel like this was my first time.
"Get on the bed. Spread your legs, little wolf."
Little wolf? Right. I wasn’t human anymore—I was a werewolf.
How did this happen? That’s the story I’m about to tell.
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"I’m sorry, Mrs. Parker, but the test results confirm it. It’s stage three ovarian cancer."
The doctor’s voice was heavy with regret as he delivered the news. I didn’t cry. I didn’t break down like I thought I would. What truly left me breathless wasn’t the diagnosis—it was the cold indifference of my husband.
I had fainted at a charity gala, one I attended with my emotionally distant husband. His look of disgust said it all: I’d ruined everything again. Guilt choked me, leaving me unable to defend myself as I was rushed to the hospital.
Now, in the doctor’s office, I sat numb, staring at his lips as he spoke. The doctors mistook my silence for grief over my condition. They tried to reassure me with survival rates and treatment options, but none of it brought comfort. My hands clenched tightly on my lap, my nails digging into my palms.
"How long?" The words slipped out, cutting through his explanation of chemotherapy schedules and clinical trials.
The doctor hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Without treatment… six months."
Six months.
I nodded, not daring to say more. My gaze shifted to the corner of the room, where a vase of fake sunflowers sat on a small table. Their vibrant yellow mocked me—they didn’t die, they didn’t wither.
Before being called into the office, I’d been clutching the book I was reading. Was it fate? Would I wither and die like the heroine in the story, unloved by my husband?
"Mrs. Parker?" The doctor’s voice pulled me back to reality. I blinked, refocusing on him.
"Thank you, Doctor," I said softly, rising from the chair. "I’ll consider my options."
The drive home was swift. By the time I pulled into the driveway, the sun had set. My hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, but when I turned off the ignition, I felt… nothing. No grief, no anger—just emptiness. Maybe I was still in shock. Maybe I hadn’t processed it yet.
But I knew one thing: the first thing I’d do when I got home was file for divorce. If Tom didn’t love me, then in my remaining time, I wanted freedom and peace.
"Tom?" I called out as I walked into the house. "Where are you?"
I stopped mid-sentence as footsteps echoed from the stairs. First, I noticed the deep red hair, then the fox-like eyes, and finally the smirk curling her lips.
"Hello," she said, extending her hand. I scoffed, refusing to take it.
Tom appeared behind her, buttoning his shirt. His hair was disheveled, his zipper slightly undone.
"June," he said, his tone as cold as his expression. "You’re home early."
I stared at him, speechless. I had just been diagnosed with cancer, given months to live, and here was my husband, bringing his mistress into our home.
"You brought her here? Into our house?"
"Don’t make a scene," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It’s not a big deal."
"Not a big deal?" I scoffed.
"What do you want from me?" His voice rose slightly. "I’m tired, June. I’m grieving too, but when I try to be there for my wife, you push me away like I’m some kind of pest."
"Grieving?" My voice trembled. "Yes, I’m grieving, but that doesn’t give you the right to cheat—especially not in this house!"
"You know what?" He walked into the study and pulled out a document. "This marriage is over. We should end it."
I laughed bitterly as I took the papers. It was a divorce settlement. Ironically, this was what I’d planned to do today, but I thought I’d at least leave with dignity, with some semblance of respect from my husband. Not like this—not with his whore in our home, my last sanctuary!
Tears streamed down my face, but I wiped them away harshly. He wasn’t worth it. How could he, on the same day his wife was diagnosed with cancer, bring another woman into our home? He couldn’t even muster the bare minimum of decency.
"Fine. I’ll sign the divorce papers," I said, my voice firm despite the pain. "But I want you and your whore out of this house now. Or you know the consequences."
Tom’s eyes turned red, but I knew he’d do as I said—this house was still under my name, and I was the one paying the bills! As I brushed past him, my shoulder bumping his, I muttered, "I hope your life turns into a dumpster fire."
The air in the house felt suffocating, toxic. I quickly called a cleaning service and then got into my car, driving aimlessly. I wanted to scream, to throw something, but all I could do was laugh—a bitter, hollow laugh. I mocked my own pitiful fate. Maybe the cancer was the universe’s punishment for tying myself to a man who never loved me. But it wasn’t even my idea; it was Tom’s family who begged me to marry him.
Tom had been at the wedding too. He hadn’t acted like he didn’t want it—at least not until the day after. That’s when he changed. Still, I poured myself into my business, trying to show him my worth in other ways, but nothing changed. He kept seeing other women, and I let him.
I loved him, so I endured it. I convinced myself, screaming internally, that as long as Tom didn’t bring another woman into our home, it meant there was still a shred of love for me.
How foolish I was!
And now, cancer. Six months. That’s all I had.
How did my life come to this? I wanted to scream, but every time I opened my mouth, nothing came out. At a red light, I gripped the steering wheel tightly, slamming it in frustration.
When my phone rang, I glanced at the screen—another nuisance caller.
"Mrs. Parker, the Newtons are pulling their investment," my secretary, Maria, informed me. As the light turned green, I pressed the accelerator.
"What’s their reason?" I asked, forcing my voice to sound steady.
Bright lights flashed from my left, catching my attention. The truck slammed into the driver’s side, sending my car skidding across the road. My head snapped back against the headrest, pain shooting through my neck and shoulders.
The car flipped.
Once.
Twice.
"Help…" The word barely escaped my lips as I struggled to breathe. Blood trickled from my temple, warm and sticky, darkness creeping into the edges of my vision.
Is this it? Is this how my story ends?
