Once My Husband's Timer Reach Zero, I'll be Filthy Rich

He cheated and I handed him the condom myself. He was violent and I kept the medicine ready before he even raised his hand. He brought women home and I welcomed them at the door with a smile, the candlelight casting soft shadows on my face, the wine already poured. The servants sneered behind my back, whispering that I had no dignity, that I was pitiful.

But they didn't know the truth.

The day I married him, I saw the countdown above his head—three years left.

Three years. That was all I had to endure. So, I played the role of the perfect, spineless wife, absorbing every slap, every insult, every humiliation without resistance. I became the unshakable pillar of our home, not out of love or devotion, but out of patience.

Once my husband's timer hit zero, everything—his fortune, his properties, his luxurious lifestyle—would be mine. I'd drive a Ferrari, wrap myself in designer clothes and keep a young lover on my arm, basking in the freedom I had earned.

Last night, the countdown had less than a day left. My heart pounded with excitement as I booked a Ferrari test drive overnight, imagining the wind in my hair, the weight of his wealth finally in my hands.

But this morning... the numbers were gone.

And when I looked in the mirror, my breath caught.

The bright red countdown had appeared—clear as day—above my own head.

——

I stood in front of the mirror, carefully lifting my hand to apply medicine to my collarbone.

Last night, Joseph had kicked me to the floor. The impact sent a sharp jolt through my body and when I hit the ground, my collarbone struck the edge of the bed with a loud crack—like something had snapped. For a moment, I thought it had. But when the pain dulled into a deep, throbbing ache instead of sharp agony, I realized I had been lucky.

And, since nothing was broken, I could still make breakfast.

A maid stood at the bathroom door, peeking in hesitantly. Her eyes flickered between the bruises on my skin and my steady hands as I dabbed the ointment.

"Madam, you didn't forget to prepare the cream, did you?" she asked lightly. "Mr. Joseph's been a bit heavy-handed lately."

Another maid snickered. "Last time, you put it on too late and the swelling was as big as a dumpling. But you're not the type to fear pain, huh, Madam?"

I turned, meeting their amused gazes with a smile. "This time, I put it on in advance. Even added a medicated patch. It won't interfere with making breakfast."

They laughed. And I knew exactly what they were laughing at.

They were laughing at my lack of dignity, at how I lived like a dog—how my husband slept with other women while I still served him tea with a smile.

But I didn't care.

Because unlike them, I understood what truly mattered.

I wasn't after dignity. I was after money.

More precisely, I was after the billions Joseph would leave behind once he was dead in just a few days.

***

Three years ago, the first time I saw Joseph was at a business banquet. The grand ballroom was filled with the elite—men in tailored suits, women draped in diamonds, the air thick with champagne and calculated conversations.

Then he walked in. Joseph Gray.

A black suit perfectly tailored to his tall, broad frame. Sharp brows. Deep-set eyes that held a cold, commanding presence. His posture was straight, his every step exuding confidence.

All around him, people paused.

Women straightened their backs, adjusted their hair, subtly shifted closer. The younger ones, barely concealing their excitement, stole glances at him with wide, infatuated eyes. Even men watched him with cautious admiration, measuring their own status against his.

But I wasn't looking at him for the same reason they were. I was staring at the bright red countdown floating above his head.

My breath caught. Three years?

I blinked, half expecting it to disappear. But the numbers remained, burning into my vision like an omen.

I had never seen anything like it before.

That night, I scoured the internet for answers and deep in the recesses of obscure forums, I found it—accounts from a small number of people who claimed to have the ability to see countdowns to others' deaths. Some called it a curse. Others, a gift.

For me, it was an opportunity.

Joseph was the first person I had ever seen with a timer over his head. And he wasn't just anyone. He was the only heir to the Gray Family's real estate empire, a fortune worth billions.

That night, I lay awake, gripping my calculator, running the numbers three times.

If I married him and lasted until he died, I'd never have to struggle again. I'd be swimming in wealth, living in luxury, indulging in whatever whims I pleased.

I set my plan into motion.

It didn't take much effort. I created frequent "coincidences," making sure our paths crossed. But before I could even execute half of them, Joseph noticed me first.

He was aggressive in his pursuit. Luxury cars arrived at my doorstep. Expensive designer gifts followed. He introduced me to his parents within a month. And before I knew it, he was slipping a ring onto my finger, declaring, "I'll protect you for the rest of my life."

I didn't believe in the promise of protection, but I did believe in the timeline. The rest of his life was only three years.

And as soon as we were married, just as I had expected, the illusion shattered.

Joseph wasn't the charming, devoted fiancé he had pretended to be. It didn't take long before he showed his true colors.