“We need a divorce. She has stomach cancer. They’ve given her six months.”
In the aftermath of their intimacy, Caspian Thorne sat up, his voice a cool, distant thing.
Lyra Sanford, her breathing still uneven from their encounter, turned to him slowly, a storm of disbelief in her eyes.
They had been married for a year. What was this sudden talk of divorce?
“Her last wish is to be my wife,” Caspian added, almost as an afterthought.
He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling in lazy spirals around his face.
Lyra could only stare at him, stunned. A thick silence settled over the room.
The bedside lamp cast a soft glow, stretching their shadows across the wall until they seemed miles apart.
Caspian glanced at her, his brow furrowed in a faint line of impatience.
“It’s just to comfort her,” he explained. “We’ll remarry in six months. She won’t be around for long, Lyra.”
His tone was steady, almost detached, as if he were relaying a message that had nothing to do with him.
Lyra watched him wordlessly, her gaze fixed on the sharp line of his profile. He spoke as if giving an order, not making a request.
Their relationship had always been a pursuit on her part, a chase born of youthful adoration. She had followed him for years, weathering every difficult season without once letting go.
Lyra remembered the day he’d stood between her and her stepfather in a downpour, gripping a splintered piece of wood. “Touch Lyra again,” he had said, his voice laced with fire, “and you’ll regret it.”
That single moment was seared into her memory. Even weak and bleeding, she had seen him—a fierce, unmovable protector. From that day forward, she was his.
She had loved him unconditionally, fulfilling his every request more perfectly than anyone else could have. He would pat her head, a light, warm gesture, and murmur, “You did so well, Lyra.”
But Caspian’s praise was fleeting, his kisses ephemeral. The affection between them always felt just beyond her grasp, a reality she dismissed as simply being his way. Even when others called her naive, she remained, devoted and unwavering.
She had given him seven years of her life.
A year ago, Caspian’s grandmother, Eleonora Thorne, had fallen ill. In a bid to lift her spirits, the family decided Caspian should marry. The joy of a wedding, they hoped, would give the old woman something to live for.
And so, Caspian had married Lyra.
She had believed it was finally their time. But after the wedding, he grew distant. At times, he looked at her as if she were a complete stranger.
“Lyra, are you even listening?” Caspian’s scowl broke through her thoughts as he noticed her vacant stare.
“Does it have to be this way?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
He didn’t answer, saying instead, “She’s been through so much, Lyra.”
A knot tightened in Lyra’s chest. “And what about me?”