Chapter 1: The Kiss and the Comments

After my husband—who I'd married mostly because our families expected it—was diagnosed with a terminal illness, I even tried to coax him into bed, desperate for some connection.

The words felt strange in my mouth, but I still leaned over, brushing his hair back from his forehead. The sharp scent of his aftershave mixed with the lemony, almost clinical smell of the hospital room. My heart hammered as I tried to sound playful, teasing—like those couples in the 2000s rom-coms I used to binge-watch on TBS late at night, hoping to spark some warmth between us.

"You’re amazing, babe."

He turned his cold face away, but suddenly, floating bullet comments appeared in the air:

The air shimmered with what looked like digital graffiti—like the wild, rapid-fire chat in a Twitch stream or a YouTube livestream gone off the rails. I blinked twice, thinking maybe I was overtired, but the words hovered there—bright, sassy, and impossible to ignore.

"Girl, stop hyping him up! If you keep this up, he’s gonna die from pleasure! 😂"

"Lmao, does that guy even look sick to anyone?"

"Bruh, what a faker! Just wait till the other dude exposes him—he’ll be shook!"

My cheeks burned with embarrassment. I swallowed the compliment I was about to give, the moment turning heavy and surreal. Maybe I was losing it. Or maybe this was just what happened when you spent too many nights in waiting rooms, living on vending machine snacks and no sleep.

The next second, he kissed me, his voice rough and low.

His lips crashed into mine—unexpected, hungry, like he was trying to memorize every bit of me. The need in his touch scraped at my resolve, making my pulse race.

"Baby... say something sweet to me again."

"Faking—faking being sick!"

I instinctively moved away from him, a chill running down my spine.

My heart stuttered. The thought—so blunt and ugly—flashed between us like static electricity. I edged away, pulling the blanket up to my chin, searching his face for any crack in the mask, any sign of a lie.

Carter Hayes froze, disbelief flickering in his eyes, his cheeks flushing red as he coughed softly.

He looked so vulnerable, the color draining from his face. For a second, guilt pricked me. He pressed a fist to his mouth, coughing again, and I almost reached for him before catching myself.

He seemed more breakable than ever before.

It was the kind of fragility that made you want to wrap him in a blanket and keep the world away. But under the hospital’s harsh fluorescent lights, he seemed almost too perfect—like porcelain, or a Hollywood actor playing sick.

"Babe, my chest hurts again."

He pressed my hand to his chest, the gesture oddly intimate.

His palm was warm and a little clammy. I could feel the steady thump of his heart through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, but it didn’t sound anxious—just alive, steady.

"Listen to my heartbeat... does it sound anxious?"

His chest was broad and solid—I couldn’t hear his heartbeat at all over the thundering rush in my own ears.

All I could focus on was the rise and fall of his breath, the faint tremor in his voice. I tried to listen, but the only thing I heard was my own pulse pounding.

When I didn’t respond, he pursed his lips, looking defeated.

His shoulders slumped, and for a second, he looked every bit the heartbroken husband. It tugged at me, even though I knew I should stay strong.

"Well, I’m basically a dying man. It’s normal to feel anxious."

He gently turned my face toward him, his eyes searching mine with a quiet desperation.

His fingers were gentle but insistent, tilting my chin up so our eyes met. He looked at me like I was the last thing he’d ever see, and it made something in me twist uncomfortably.

"I just want to kiss you one more time before I go."

"Don’t hide from me, okay..."

His voice was barely a whisper, like he was confessing something he’d never dared to say out loud.

"I won’t force you. If you don’t want to, that’s okay."

He gave a self-mocking smile, and for a moment, my heart ached for him.

The corners of his mouth barely lifted, but it was enough to make me feel like the villain in my own story. I hated that feeling.

I felt terrible for doubting him—was I really that easily swayed by those floating comments?

Maybe my aching back was making me hallucinate.

I quickly took the initiative to kiss him, but he soon deepened the kiss, stealing my breath away.

His arms came around me, pulling me close, and suddenly the world narrowed to the heat of his mouth on mine. It was desperate, urgent—nothing like the gentle pecks of a sick man. I lost myself in it for a moment before the digital graffiti exploded again.

Bullet comments exploded:

"Was that supposed to be gentle? Dude nearly ate her alive! 😂"

"Even if he’s dying, his lips sure aren’t! That’s not a sick man’s kiss, lmao."

"She must love it, he moves so fast he’s a blur."

"Wait, do VIPs get video? All I have is a black screen and audio."

"He must’ve been holding back for three years, now he’s going wild, sneaking around at midnight."

"Heh, I know what’s up—the main guy’s watching her swallow and rewarding himself like a puppy."

I was stunned, frozen mid-kiss.

The comments echoed in my mind, making me second-guess everything. Was I the only one who thought something was off?

According to the comments, Carter wasn’t sick at all—he’d been plotting against me from the start?

But he used to be so cold and distant.

If he weren’t supposedly dying and wanting an heir, he would’ve never touched me.

Would he really... reward himself at midnight?

I shivered, both embarrassed and oddly curious. Was I missing something all along?