The weekend passed in a blur of exhaustion and unspoken resentment. By Monday morning, Tina was already running on fumes.

She arrived at the Academy before the sun had fully risen, her blazer clutched over one arm, coffee cooling rapidly in her hand. Her inbox had forty-three unread messages. Luke had copied her on nearly every correspondence over the weekend—none with a greeting, none with a thank you.

There was no time to process. The webinar was scheduled for noon, and the day hit like a whirlwind.

Tina moved like a machine. She checked the lighting and audio setup in Studio B, triple-confirmed the speaker’s arrival time, briefed the moderator, and coordinated tech support for backup. Every screen, mic, and timer had to align perfectly.

At 11:58 a.m., she stood just behind the main camera, headset on, eyes darting between countdown timers and the streaming dashboard.

The webinar launched without a hitch. The guest speaker’s voice came through crisp. The moderator smiled, poised and practiced. Attendees flooded the chat in real-time. All her meticulous planning—every rescheduled call, every forgotten meal—had led to this moment.

And then, at the thirty-eight-minute mark, a minor hiccup: two-second audio delay.

The speaker adjusted his mic and continued without pause, but Tina’s stomach dropped. She’d heard it. And she knew Luke had too.

After the session ended, the staff clapped quietly. Tina removed her headset and finally exhaled.

Luke walked in just as people began to disperse. He gave a single nod to the speaker, shook one investor’s hand, then turned to Tina with his unreadable gaze.

“There was a lag in the sound,” he said, tone dry.

“Yes,” Tina said cautiously. “It was a buffer sync issue. I caught it immediately—tech corrected it within seconds.”

Luke didn’t nod. Didn’t blink.

“Next time,” he said coolly, “make sure the tech support is better prepared.”

And then he walked away.

No thank you. No acknowledgment of the seamless 59 other minutes.

Tina stood frozen.

All that work.

All that effort.

All she got was a reprimand.

As the studio emptied out, Ruth, one of the senior admin staff, lingered nearby. A gentle woman in her early sixties, Ruth had seen enough of Luke’s dismissiveness to recognize the aftermath in Tina’s expression.

She walked over slowly, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor.

“You did well today,” Ruth said, voice kind. “Don’t let him steal that from you.”

Tina offered a weak smile. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Ruth said gently. “But that’s okay too.”

Something in her tone—the permission to not be okay—nearly undid Tina.

“I’m trying,” Tina whispered.

“I know you are.” Ruth touched her arm lightly. “Just… keep enduring. Some of us have been doing that for decades.”

Tina nodded, lips pressed tightly together. She gathered her things and left the studio with slow, measured steps.

But the moment she reached the hallway, her breath began to hitch.

She rushed toward the women’s restroom, heels clicking urgently now, pushing the door open with a trembling hand.

She barely locked the stall before her body gave out.

She slid to the cold tile floor, chest rising in shallow gasps. Her fingers clutched her temples. The pain was unbearable now—pressing, radiating. Sharp and insistent. She thought it was a stress headache. She thought she could power through like always.

But this was different.

Her vision swam.

Blood dripped from her nose onto her shirt.

She blinked at it in confusion.

Then her world tilted sideways, and everything went black.

The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and sadness. Harsh white lights buzzed above her, blurring at the edges as Tina blinked herself back to clarity.

A nurse adjusted the IV drip beside her. “You fainted in your office restroom. Some coworkers brought you in. You’ve been out for a few hours.”

Tina tried to speak, but her throat was too dry.

She turned her head slowly.

A doctor entered, clipboard in hand. Mid-forties. Stern expression. He didn’t waste time with small talk.

“Miss Matthews, I’m Dr. Kalu,” he said. “We ran a CT scan to assess your collapse and the source of your nosebleed. I’m afraid we found something… unexpected.”

Tina’s heart thudded dully.

“The scan revealed a tumor in your brain,” he continued. “It’s located near your frontal lobe. Given the size and position… it’s inoperable.”

She stared at him, the words not computing.

Tumor?

Frontal lobe?

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said quietly. “It’s advanced. And aggressive.”

Tina sat very still. She could hear the beeping of a machine somewhere behind her. A car honking faintly through the hospital window. Her own breath caught in her chest.

“How long?” she finally asked. “How long do I have to live?”

Dr. Kalu looked at her, sympathy etched across his features.

“Three months,” he said. “Four, at most.”

A cold stillness settled over her.

Tina looked away, eyes fixed on the ceiling tiles. She tried to count them, to ground herself in something real, something measurable. But the numbers kept slipping through her fingers like sand.

Three months.

The words echoed in her skull louder than Luke’s criticisms. Louder than Sophie’s warnings. Louder than all the apologies no one ever said.

She didn’t feel her body tremble, but the tears came anyway.

And no one even saw her.

Back at the office, Luke Lawson sat in his glass-walled corner suite, skimming the post-webinar investor report. His expression was unreadable, jaw set tight as he scanned each paragraph with mechanical precision. Numbers. Graphs. Predictions.

Still, something tugged at the edge of his focus.

She should’ve sent him the Studio B debrief by now.

His eyes flicked toward the empty desk just outside his office—Tina’s desk.

Before he could dwell on it, a soft knock sounded.

“Come in,” Luke said without looking up.

The door opened, and one of the board members, Charles Garnett, stepped in. A man in his late fifties, Garnett, who was usually light-hearted, often sharing investor jokes or harmless gossip.

But not today.

“Lawson,” Garnett said, tone lower than usual.

Luke glanced up. “Yes?”

Garnett walked in, arms folded, a shadow behind his eyes. “Thought you should know. Your secretary—Miss Matthews—collapsed shortly after the webinar.”

Luke’s posture stiffened. “Collapsed?”

“Nosebleed. Fainted in the restroom, I heard. A few staff found her unconscious. They rushed her to the hospital. Ruth went with her.”