The diagnosis was clear: three months. That was all I had left.

My phone rang. It was my wife.

"Joseph," she said, "you need to come on the reality show *The Last Journey* with me."

My instinct was to refuse, but she didn’t give me the chance.

"I lost a bet to Stephen. The hundredth one."

"You have to go. And on the final day, we leave the show together."

For three years, Helen had made a hundred bets with me, every single one for the sake of her so-called "savior," Stephen.

She’d lost ninety-nine times.

The cruelest loss was the one that took our child—just seven months along.

"Fine," I said. "I’ll go."

Consider it my final journey with her.

She just didn’t know it would be our last.

***

*The Last Journey* was filming in a small northern town nestled at the foot of a mountain range.

Light snow was falling when we arrived.

Flakes settled on my shoulders, their biting chill sending a dull ache deep into my lungs. I coughed reflexively, covering my mouth with a handkerchief.

When I pulled it away, a stark, vivid red stained the pure white cotton.

Tucking the handkerchief back into my pocket as if nothing had happened, I looked up at Helen walking ahead.

She wore a camel-colored coat, her posture straight and elegant—and just as distant and cold as the landscape around us.

Not once did she glance back, as though I weren’t even there.

The production crew rushed over, all smiles. "Helen! Joseph! Welcome, welcome! Your room’s all ready. You must be tired from the trip—please, rest first."

Helen gave a slight, indifferent nod and walked straight toward the log cabin the crew had arranged.

Pushing the door open, a wave of warm air greeted us.

The room was spacious and cozy, dominated by a large bed covered with a soft wool blanket.

According to the show’s rules, all married couples had to share a room during the trip.

I started to wheel my suitcase inside, but Helen suddenly turned, her gaze icy. "You take the sofa."

I froze.

Her beautiful features were etched with pure disgust, as if sharing a bed with me would be unbearable.

"I made a bet with Stephen," she said. "For this entire trip, you won’t lay a finger on me."

Another bet.

A fist closed around my heart and stole my breath.

So even where I slept had been part of her bet with Stephen.

What was I to them? Just a living prop, moved around at their whim?

The live comments exploded.

【??? Separate rooms from the start? Helen isn’t giving Joseph any face at all.】

【This is painful to watch. My idol, an award-winning actor, brought so low.】

【Stop defending him. A guy who starred in a softcore film? Helen not divorcing him is mercy.】

【Exactly. Without this show trying to rehab his image, a disgraced actor like him wouldn’t get screen time.】

I stared at those jagged words, nausea churning inside me.

Three years ago, that so-called “softcore” scene leaked, and my career collapsed overnight.

Everyone called me depraved, filthy. No one knew I’d done that film because Helen lost a bet to Stephen.

The terms were clear: if I refused, Stephen would release photos—photos of Helen, drunk and vulnerable at an investor dinner years ago, when she was desperate for funding.

I had no choice.

Yet Helen never explained. Not a word.

She let my “fall from grace” stand, content to enjoy the peace I’d bought with my reputation.

Without a word, I gathered my blanket and headed for the living room sofa.

It was narrow. At six-foot-one, I had to curl up, bones pressing into the thin cushions.

In the night, a chill seeped through the window cracks. I woke shivering, over and over, each jolt followed by a hacking cough.

Afraid of waking her, I bit my lip hard and swallowed every sound.

In the dark, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, remembering clearly the first time we met.

It was a snowy day, too.

I was the poorest student in the acting department; she, the celebrated belle of directing.

That day, with twenty bucks I’d just earned, I bought two steaming meat buns for the next morning’s breakfast.

Passing the library, I saw her sitting alone on the steps, shivering.

On impulse, I walked over and handed her one of the buns, still warm.

She looked up. Her clear, bright eyes met mine, and something shifted inside me.

Later, I learned she’d fought with her family. Her allowance was cut. She hadn’t eaten all day.

From then on, Helen became part of my life.

I skipped meals to buy her favorite strawberry cake. I trekked across half the city in a snowstorm for a cup of hot soy milk. I tied a handmade red-string bracelet around her wrist.

She’d say, “Joseph, this is so tacky.” But she never took it off.

After graduation, I entered the industry, starting from bit parts.

With her father’s support, she founded her own studio.

I took every role I could, pouring all my earnings into her projects.

She proved herself, winning a Best New Director award with her first film.

That night, clutching the trophy, she laughed and cried in my arms. “Joseph, when I’m a world-famous director, I’ll take care of you!”

I thought we’d stay on that path.

Until Stephen appeared.

He claimed he’d saved Helen’s life during an avalanche.

From that day, everything changed.

Stephen became the center of Helen’s world.

And I—along with our nine years—became worthless.

The pain in my chest sharpened, needling deep.

I knew my time was running out.

The next morning, the production crew announced the first task: each couple would collaborate to prepare a breakfast filled with memories for their partner.

On the live stream, the other couples were sweetly discussing what to make.

Only in our corner had a chill settled.

Helen didn’t even glance my way. She walked straight into the kitchen, pulled a carton of juice and a bag of bread from the fridge.

My stomach clenched instantly.

I’m allergic to that juice. Helen knew that.

Back when we were first together, I’d once accidentally drunk some and ended up with acute gastritis. She’d held me all night, crying, blaming herself.

Now, she was handing me that same juice herself.

“Drink it.” Her tone was flat, but it carried a command that brooked no refusal.

I looked at her, my voice rough. “Helen, I—”

“I know you’re allergic.” She cut me off, her eyes devoid of any warmth. “It’s part of the bet. Finish this, and Stephen won’t bother me all day today.”

In that moment, my heart froze solid.

So my pain, my health—in her eyes, they were just bargaining chips for a moment’s peace.

The live chat exploded again.

**[Am I seeing this right? Helen knows Joseph’s allergic to that juice and she’s forcing him to drink it? Is this attempted murder?]**

**[Hey, everyone calling Joseph problematic, wanna explain this? Who’s actually the villain here?]**

**[Did someone put a curse on Helen? Who the hell is this Stephen guy?]**

**[Am I the only one who feels awful for Joseph? The light’s gone from his eyes…]**

I didn’t say another word. Silently, I took the carton, twisted the cap off, and downed it in one go.

The cold liquid slid down my throat, and an immediate, violent cramp seized my stomach.

Fighting back nausea and dizziness, I picked up a slice of bread and forced myself to chew.

Helen stood across from me, watching coldly.

Only after I finished eating did she turn away, pouring herself a glass of hot water as if what had just happened had nothing to do with her.

After breakfast, the task continued.

The crew asked each spouse to write down ten of their partner’s strengths.

Pen and paper in hand, my mind filled with images of Helen.

The slight furrow of her brow when she was focused on work. The way her eyes crinkled into lovely crescents when she smiled. How she was always cold, her hands and feet like ice in winter. Her love for spicy food, even though it always made her eyes water…

My pen moved, writing the first point: **Kind.**

Even though she was cruel to me now, I still remembered how she used to cry secretly over a stray cat.

**Strong.**

**Talented.**

**Has a beautiful smile.**

…

I quickly filled all ten lines. Each one was soaked in memories, in my reluctance to let go.

On the other side, Helen sat before a blank sheet of paper, not moving her pen for a long time.

The camera zoomed in for a close-up of her page. It was completely empty.

The live chat filled with taunts.

**[LOL, can’t think of anything? Guess the feelings are really gone.]**

**[Can’t even be bothered to pretend anymore. Helen, just divorce him already. Stop torturing Joseph.]**

**[This is wild. I could list ten of Joseph’s strengths off the top of my head. Handsome, great actor, amazing body…]**

Just then, Helen’s phone rang.

She glanced at the screen, immediately stood up, and walked aside to answer. Her voice held a gentleness I’d never heard before. “Stephen? What’s wrong?”

I don’t know what was said on the other end, but her expression instantly tightened with worry. “Don’t panic, I’m coming right now!”

Hanging up, she grabbed her coat and headed for the door.

Instinctively, I caught her wrist. “Where are you going? We’re still filming.”

She shook me off forcefully, her gaze icy and piercing. “Stephen has a fever. I need to take care of him. Joseph, don’t forget—I owe him my life!”

That line again.

Every time she did anything for Stephen, she used it to shut me up.

Watching her resolute back, my heart spasmed with pain. A coughing fit seized me.

This time, I couldn’t hold back. A mouthful of blood sprayed out, splattering across the white floor.