Even after the separation, Cassandra maintained the habit of conveniently showing up whenever Marco had important engagements, carefully cultivating her presence in her ex-husband’s life. “He’s been in there for almost two hours now,” she complained to the secretary, who politely ignored her, accustomed as she was to the former Mrs. Rodriguez’s unwelcome visits. “It must be something serious to take so long.” When the office door finally opened, Cassandra immediately adopted a rehearsed expression of concern. Marco emerged with a folder of documents under his arm, his face as impassive as ever, though a keen observer might notice a new shadow in his eyes.
Before he could reach the elevator, Cassandra intercepted him, strategically positioning herself in his path. “Marco, darling, I was just passing by and heard you had a consultation,” she said, the obvious lie flowing smoothly from her perfectly painted lips. “Is everything alright? You look down?” Marco regarded Cassandra with a look that was a mixture of weariness and irritation. The coincidence was clearly fabricated. She probably still maintained contacts within her team, well-paid informants to track his movements. In other times, he would have confronted such an invasion of privacy, but now, with the death sentence ringing in his ears, her presence seemed like just an irritating detail on an already difficult day.
“So, what did the doctor say? It’s serious,” Cassandra insisted, trying to sound genuinely concerned as her eyes scanned the folder of documents he was carrying. “You know you can count on me, no matter what.” Marco almost laughed at the irony. Throughout their marriage, Cassandra had never shown any real interest in his well-being, only in his bank account. The divorce had only made that obsession more transparent with her constant attempts to extract more money through renegotiations and veiled threats.
The idea that she could now offer comfort seemed like a bad joke. “Nothing to worry about,” he replied coldly, trying to walk around her to get to the elevator. “Just routine tests.” Cassandra wasn’t easily deterred, following him down the corridor with the persistence of someone who felt there was something important to uncover. Her heels clicked on the floor, creating an irritating rhythm that seemed to pierce Marco’s already weary mind. When the elevator doors opened, she stepped in with him, ignoring his clear desire to be alone.
“Well, as your ex-wife, I believe I have a right to know,” she insisted, adjusting a diamond bracelet so it sparkled in the elevator lights. After all, there was the will to consider. “You know you always promised me that beach house? It was the least you could do after everything I went through with you. There it was.” The real reason for her concern wasn’t about health or well-being, but about what she could extract from him. Now, Marco felt a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with his illness.
The beach house in question, a seaside mansion valued in the millions, had been mentioned casually during one of the few happy periods of the marriage. It wasn’t a formal promise, but Cassandra clung to it as if it were a contract signed in blood. “Cassandra, I’m tired,” Marco said. The terminal diagnosis was giving him a new perspective on such pettiness. This wasn’t the time to discuss property or wills. The elevator reached the ground floor, and the doors opened into the hospital’s luxurious lobby.
Cassandra continued following Marco to the entrance, determined not to let him escape without getting the information she sought. Her persistence, which he had previously considered merely irritating, now felt suffocating. The thought of spending his last days dealing with her greed and that of others who would surely appear at the scent of death was unbearable. “You’re different today,” Cassandra observed, narrowing her eyes shrewdly. “There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there? You know I’ll find out eventually. I always do.” Overwhelmed by her presence and the devastating news that still echoed in his mind, Marco made an impulsive decision.
He wouldn’t waste another minute of his precious remaining time on people and situations that only brought him anguish. Ignoring his ex-wife’s protests, he headed for the hospital exit, leaving her talking to herself in the middle of the lobby. “Where are you going?” she called out, abandoning any pretense of concern. “We haven’t finished this conversation, Marco.” Outside, the night had turned into a storm. The rain was pouring down mercilessly, soaking him completely in the few seconds it took him to step out from under the entrance canopy.
His driver, seeing him come out, quickly got ready to pick him up, but Marco gestured for him not to come any closer. He needed air, space, time to process what had happened. Ignoring the doctor’s orders to rest, ignoring the comfort his money could buy, he started walking alone down the street. “Mr. Rodriguez, the doctor recommended that you not expose yourself,” the driver called out, concerned, holding an umbrella. “Let me at least take you home.” The rain washed over Marco’s face, mingling with the tears he finally allowed to fall—the first in more than a decade.
There was something strangely liberating about being like this, completely vulnerable to the elements, after having hidden behind walls of money and power for so long. His Italian suit, which had cost more than many people’s annual salaries, was now water-damaged, clinging to his body like a second skin. “I need to be alone,” Marcos replied without looking back, his voice almost inaudible under the patter of the rain. “Don’t follow me. I’ll come back when I’m ready.” Marco wandered aimlessly through the elegant streets of the neighborhood, past exclusive restaurants and luxury boutiques, all places that were part of his privileged world.
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