Kimberly’s POV
The next morning, photos of Cedric brawling with another man over Katie saturated social media and gossip columns.
For the first time, his affair had transcended whispers to become public spectacle–complete with bloody knuckles and designer suits on a nightclub floor.
When I tried to leave the house, a swarm of reporters materialized from behind parked cars and hedges.
Cedric’s company had exploded in recent years, transforming him from ambitious entrepreneur to power player in London’s business scene.
Young, obscenely wealthy, and camera–ready handsome, he routinely dominated trending topics and tabloid front pages.
A young woman with immaculate highlights thrust a microphone at my face. “Mrs. Royce, care to comment on your husband’s very public relationship with Katie Miller?”
I kept walking, sunglasses firmly in place. “A cheating husband and his willing side piece. What’s there to comment on?”
She clicked along beside me in pointed heels. “Sources say you dumped Cedric when he was dead broke, purely for financial reasons.”
“Then manipulated your way back into his life once he hit it big…”
“Now that he’s found his soulmate in Katie–they make such a gorgeous couple–you’re just bitterly clinging to your position while playing victim.”
“Aren’t you the actual villain in this story?”
I stopped abruptly and turned to face her, snatching the press badge dangling from her neck.
The laminated card read “Junior Correspondent,” but behind it was a student ID from Coventry University.
“You’re Katie’s friend, aren’t you?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet.
“Cedric bulldozed his way into this marriage. You think I wanted any of this?”
“Everyone who matters knows the truth. So which is it–incompetent journalism or just helping your bestie climb the social ladder on her back?”
Color flooded her cheeks as she grabbed her credentials back. “Yes, Katie’s my friend, but I’m a professional. Everything I’ve said is factual.”
“If you’re such a victim in this marriage, why not just divorce him now that he’s found someone he actually loves?”
I opened my mouth to respond when warmth began trickling down my upper lip. Blood dripped onto my white blouse, spreading like watercolor.
The metallic taste filled my mouth as someone in the crowd of onlookers snickered. “Look at Mrs. High–and–Mighty bleeding all over herself! Claims she doesn’t give a shit about her husband, but gets so worked up she’s literally hemorrhaging!”
I pressed my fingers to my lip, staring at the bright red smear with detached fascination. Another warning sign. The disease progressing faster than expected.
“I’m not upset,” I said quietly. “I’m dying. The nosebleeds are just part of it now.”
The crowd went silent. Camera shutters stopped clicking.
Only Katie’s friend continued, her voice cutting through the uncomfortable silence: “Oh please, spare us the dying swan routine. A nosebleed and suddenly you’re terminal?”
“Women like you are pathetic. Playing every manipulative card–even fake illness–to trap a man who clearly wants out. You make all women look desperate and psychotic.”
She flipped her glossy ponytail and stalked away, designer handbag swinging.
Her retreating silhouette–young, confident, oblivious–reminded me so much of Katie that I nearly laughed at the cosmic joke of it all. How little time I had left, and here I was, still caught in Cedric’s drama.
the truth if I collapsed at their feet.
Chap
