He had visited the hospital countless times, each visit leaving him with the same mix of irritation and exhaustion.
Cyril always chose the stairs over the elevator—not to stay fit, but to avoid small talk, sympathetic looks, or pretending he cared more than he did.
That day, he carried a small bouquet of white roses. Larissa, his wife, had been unconscious for weeks and wouldn’t even see them. Still, the flowers created the right impression—for the doctors, for her relatives. Appearances mattered.
Every day she remained alive drained his finances further. The machines, the medications, the round-the-clock care—it was more than he wanted to keep paying for.
Yet everyone held on to hope. Everyone except him.
What if Larissa didn’t make it? Her estate, her fortune, her business empire—it would all be his. The thought brought a strange mix of guilt and relief.
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When he entered her hospital room, he leaned in close to her still body.
“Larissa,” he whispered, “I never truly loved you—not the way you thought I did.”
His voice trembled. “This illness… it’s draining me. If you’d just… let go… things would be easier.”
Unbeknownst to Cyril, someone was hiding under the bed.
Mirabel, a hospital volunteer, had ducked under to avoid a confrontation with him. But now she had heard everything.
Later, Cyril resumed his role as the devoted husband when Larissa’s father, Harland, arrived. Harland, weighed down by worry, asked if there had been any changes.
Cyril answered with the usual sincerity, masking his real thoughts. But Harland’s gaze lingered a moment too long—suspicion quietly settling in.
Disturbed by what she overheard, Mirabel debated what to do. Speaking out could cost her job—but staying silent might cost Larissa her life.
In the end, she went to Harland.
“He said things would be better if she… d!ed,” she confessed.
Harland turned pale but nodded grimly. “I’ve had a feeling for some time.”
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Harland quickly made arrangements to ensure someone he trusted was present in Larissa’s room at all times.
When Cyril returned the next day, he could sense a shift. Mirabel watched him closely. Harland rarely left. Still, Cyril kept up his act—until Harland pulled him aside.
“If you come near her with ill intent again,” Harland said sharply, “you’ll lose everything.”
Cyril dismissed the warning—until something unexpected happened. Larissa began to stir. Her fingers twitched, her eyelids fluttered. And something inside Cyril cracked.
Memories came rushing back—her laughter, her strength, her constant belief in him. With them came a crushing wave of shame.
As Larissa slowly regained consciousness, Cyril whispered an apology, tears slipping down his cheeks.
Days turned into weeks. Larissa grew stronger. Cyril stayed—not out of obligation, but because he genuinely wanted to be there. Harland and Mirabel kept watch but slowly noticed something shifting in him.
When Larissa was finally discharged, she looked at Cyril and said, “You stayed. Thank you.”
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Holding back tears, Cyril replied, “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize what really matters.”
No one knew what the future would bring. But the bitterness that once consumed them had given way to something fragile yet real—a quiet chance to start over.
