HE LEANED OVER HIS DYING WIFE AND SAID SOMETHING HE HAD NEVER DARED TO SAY TO HER FACE. BUT HE HAD NO IDEA THAT SOMEONE WAS HIDING UNDER THE BED… AND HEARD EVERYTHING. He’d been here more than once before, and every time this place filled him with nothing but a nagging sense of irritation and fatigue. This time, he carried a bouquet of flowers, hastily bought on the way over. He knew Larisa probably wouldn’t be able to see them or even smell them anymore, but to show up in front of the doctors and family empty-handed would have seemed strange. Especially now, when his wife had been lying there dying for a month. As Kyrylo climbed the stairs, his thoughts began to return to the grim reality. Every single day Larisa spent in this private clinic cost him a fortune. How much longer would this go on? Larisa hadn’t shown any signs of improvement in a long time, yet everyone around him kept pushing optimistic predictions, which demanded even more financial investment. He thought about all the possibilities that would open up if Larisa died—her apartment, her money, all the real estate, and the business would become his.
He had visited the hospital countless times, each trip leaving him with the same blend of irritation and exhaustion.
Cyril always opted for the stairs over the elevator—not for fitness, but to avoid small talk, sympathetic glances, or the obligation to feign concern.Today, he brought a small bouquet of white roses. Larissa, his wife, had been unconscious for weeks and wouldn’t notice them. Still, the flowers projected the right image—for the doctors, for her relatives. Appearances had to be maintained.
Every day she remained alive drained his finances further. The machinery, the medications, the constant care—it was more than he wanted to keep paying for.
Yet everyone still clung to the idea of hope. Everyone except him.What if Larissa didn’t make it? Her estate, her wealth, her business empire—all of it would become his. The thought brought an uncomfortable mix of guilt and relief.
As he entered her room, he leaned close to her still form. “Larissa,” he murmured, “I never truly loved you—not the way you believed.”
His voice shook. “This illness has bled me dry. If you’d just… slip away… everything would be simpler.”
When Larissa’s father arrived, Cyril played the devoted husband. But Mirabel, troubled by his words, warned Harland: “He said he’d be better off if she died.”
Harland acted swiftly. As Larissa awoke, Cyril broke—memories, shame, regret.
He stayed. And in that fragile space, healing quietly began.
