Diego’s assistant intercepted him just as his hand touched the car door.

"Sir, wait!"

The assistant shoved his phone into Diego’s hand. The screen was still playing the final seconds of a livestream. "Look, Mr. Cox. Mrs. Cox... she really jumped. I heard the splash myself."

Diego stared at the screen, his world freezing.

He didn't think twice. He bolted toward the riverbank.

The water was terrifyingly still.

"Kya!" he roared, his voice cracking. "Have you lost your mind? Where the hell are you?"

He lunged for the edge, his boots skidding on the mud, ready to dive in. Aliza Cook caught his arm, yanking him back.

"Mr. Cox, think!" she hissed. "It’s a stunt. She’s too proud, too spiteful. She wouldn’t kill herself; she wants you alive so she can haunt you."

Diego went rigid.

It made sense. Kya didn't take losses; she took revenge. If she were truly angry, she would have been standing here, screaming in his face, not making a dramatic show of her own death.

He stepped back, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"But the recording..."

"Edited," Aliza said, her eyes glinting with a cold, sharp light. "She’s playing you, Diego. Don’t fall for it."

Half-convinced and desperate to believe her, Diego let her pull him back toward the car.

Once the door clicked shut, the air grew thick. Aliza didn't wait. She leaned in, her hand tracing a slow, suggestive line up his forearm.

"We haven't had a second to ourselves all day," she purred.

The touch burned, but Diego saw a flash of Kya’s torn clothing from earlier. He felt a wave of revulsion, yet a dark, stubborn part of him whispered that maybe some distance would force Kya to be more reasonable.

Still, the unease was a claw in his stomach.

He grabbed Aliza’s wrist, pinning her hand. "Not now. I’m not in the mood."

He pulled out his phone. Kya’s voicemail hit him like a brick wall.

Panic flared in his throat. *The hospital.* Her mother.

He shoved Aliza aside, the gesture sharp enough to make her gasp, and raced for the hospital wing. He burst into the private suite.

It was empty. The silence was deafening.

"Where is the patient?" he demanded, wheeling on the nurse at the station.

The head nurse didn't flinch. Her expression was cold, clinical. "Mr. Cox? You weren't notified? The patient passed away minutes ago."

The room spun.

"Passed away? That’s impossible."

"The treatment authorization was revoked," the nurse said, her voice devoid of empathy. "The medication stopped. She suffered a cardiac event."

She turned on her heel and walked away.

Diego stood frozen. A high-pitched ringing drowned out everything else. If he hadn't cut those funds, she would still be here.

The realization hit him like a physical blow. He wasn't breathing. He paced the small, sterile room, his hands tangling in his hair, his mind fracturing.

He barely remembered walking back to the car.

"Stop at the bakery," he barked at the driver, his voice hollow. "Get a box of macarons."

The driver caught his eye in the rearview mirror, cautious. "Sir, I’m sure Mrs. Cox is just lashing out. She’ll turn up."

"I hope so," Diego muttered. His confidence was in ashes.

He sprinted through the front door of their estate.

It felt like a tomb. The house wasn't just quiet; it was hollow. As if someone had reached in and wiped every trace of Kya’s existence from the walls.

"Kya!" he shouted, his voice desperate. "Stop this! I’m apologizing, okay? Just come out!"

He tore through the rooms, his movements frantic, breathless.

He stopped at the entry table. A single piece of paper lay there, stark against the polished wood. He reached for it, his hands trembling.

It was a medical report.

Terminal. Leukemia.