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.”
Unbeknownst to Cyril, someone was beneath the bed. Mirabel, a hospital volunteer, had hidden there to avoid running into him.
She had heard every word. Later, Cyril resumed his role as the doting husband when Larissa’s father, Harland, arrived. Harland, worn down with worry, asked if there was any progress.
Cyril responded with practiced sincerity, concealing the rot beneath. But Harland’s eyes lingered on him a beat too long, suspicion taking root. Troubled by what she had overheard, Mirabel struggled with what to do.
Speaking up could risk her job—but staying silent might endanger Larissa. In the end, she told Harland. “He said he’d be better off if she d!ed,” she revealed.
Harland went pale, but he nodded. “I’ve had my doubts for a while now.”
He quickly made arrangements to have a trusted person present in Larissa’s room at all times. When Cyril returned the next day, he could feel the tension.
Mirabel watched him closely, and Harland seemed ever-present. He kept up his performance, but soon Harland pulled him aside. “If you come near her with any ill intent again,” Harland said coldly, “you’ll lose everything.”
Cyril brushed off the warning—until Larissa began to stir.
As her fingers twitched and her eyes fluttered, something cracked inside him. Old memories flooded back—her laughter, her strength, her unwavering support. With them came a wave of shame.
As Larissa slowly regained consciousness, Cyril whispered an apology, tears slipping down his face. Days passed, then weeks. Larissa grew stronger.
Cyril remained at her side—not out of obligation, but because he genuinely wanted to be there. Harland and Mirabel kept a watchful eye but began to notice something different in him. When Larissa was finally discharged, she looked at Cyril and said, “You stayed.
Thank you.”
Choking back emotion, Cyril replied, “I’m sorry it took me this long to see what truly matters.”
No one could say what lay ahead. But the bitterness that once clouded their bond had given way to something fragile, yet sincere—a chance to begin again.
