Confronting him head-on was useless. He'd have a million lies ready.

He'd say I misheard, that he was joking.

I needed proof.

I fumbled under the pillow for my backup phone, the old one I'd used before getting sick.

I remembered we once shared a cloud storage account, linked to this long-deactivated number. Later, he said he needed a new one for work, and this old one was never logged into again.

Could there be something there?

With shaking fingers, I entered the remembered username and password, using the old phone to get the verification code.

I logged in successfully.

The cloud photo album was mostly clean, just a few old photos of us from years ago.

Just as I was about to give up, I spotted an encrypted album tucked away in an inconspicuous corner.

My heart hammered, fingers turning cold.

I tried my birthday. Wrong.

Then I tried our wedding anniversary date, but it was still wrong.

Cathryn…

I suddenly remembered Vincent once inadvertently mentioned that his college sweetheart had a "Ryn" in her name.

He said it was just a dumb part of his past.

I took a deep breath and typed into the password field: Cathryn's spelling, plus a date important to Vincent.

The album unlocked.

The first photo hit me the moment the screen lit up.

It was Vincent and Cathryn.

She was nestled against him, smiling happily.

Vincent looked down at her with a tenderness in his eyes I'd never seen—deep, unguarded affection.

I scrolled down. Each photo was a precise stab into the softest part of my heart.

Most were intimate shots of the two of them.

It was a high-end restaurant, a familiar setting—the one where we celebrated our first wedding anniversary. The photo's timestamp was the second month after my leukemia diagnosis.

So, while I was being wheeled into the sterile room for my first agonizing chemo session, he was rekindling an old flame over dinner.

In a park, Vincent crouched to tie her shoelace. Another of him holding her from behind, his hands resting on her growing baby bump. His face held a genuine joy I'd never witnessed—the real joy of an expectant father.

There were ultrasound printouts, carefully photographed and saved.

One had a red circle around a blurry shape, with Vincent's scrawled handwriting next to it. "My son, I'm waiting for you."

The date was half a year ago.

Looking at these photos felt like drowning, wrapped in icy seawater, unable to breathe.

The unwavering devotion I thought I had was a three-year-long con.

My salvation was the greatest irony.

I didn't cry. Calmly, methodically, I used the backup phone to photograph every single picture, saving them to a password-protected local album.

This was ironclad proof of his betrayal.

Just as I was about to log out, my finger accidentally tapped a folder named "Finance Backup."

It held emails and statements Vincent had synced over the years.

A congratulatory email from a real estate agent jumped out.

I opened it. The subject, "Congratulations, Mr. Jenkins, on your successful purchase of Seaville Villa, Building A."

Seaville Villa, Building A. That was my parents' legacy to me, our marital home.

The attachment was a scanned purchase contract. The buyer was Cathryn. The payment account was our joint marital account.

He used our money to buy my home for his mistress.

But that huge sum… even emptying our joint account wouldn't have covered it. Where did the rest come from?

My eyes locked onto another document in the folder.

I opened it. A detailed spreadsheet unfolded.

One column listed donors: my parents, my best friend, the neighbor uncle who watched me grow up… every name a weight of love and care.

The other column listed amounts—each one hard-earned savings, carefully scraped together.

At the bottom was a glaring total sum.

The amount raised to save my life matched the purchase price on the contract, down to the last cent.

He hadn't just emptied our home. He had monetized my dying, squeezed dry the goodwill of everyone who loved me, to pave the way for his new family.

This wasn't just betrayal or theft.

This was picking the bones clean.

Utterly shameless.

I trembled with rage, my stomach lurching, bile rising in my throat.

Right then, the hospital room door opened.

It was Vincent.

He carried a thermal lunchbox, his face wearing that same gentle smile as always.

"Brenna, you're awake? How are you feeling today? I made you some tonic medicine. Drink it while it's hot."

I quickly locked the phone screen, shoved it under the pillow, and mustered every ounce of strength to pull a pale smile onto my face.

He brought the bowl of dark, bitter liquid to me.

Looking at it, I suddenly caught an extremely faint, yet distinct, medicinal smell mixed in with the heavy herbal bitterness.

When I was sick and foggy, I never paid attention.

But now, that scent pierced my memory like a needle.

A close friend of mine, when she was pregnant, her mother-in-law made her a daily prenatal tonic. It smelled exactly like this.

A terrifying thought exploded in my mind.

I took the bowl and, without hesitation, drank it all down.

Vincent seemed pleased with my obedience. He took the empty bowl, then as usual, took out a damp towel and gently wiped the corner of my mouth.

"Good girl. I have another meeting. I'll be back to keep you company after."

He kissed my forehead and left.

The moment the door closed, I couldn't hold back. I rushed into the bathroom, collapsing over the toilet, vomiting violently.

I wasn't just throwing up stomach acid, but that medicine.

The peculiar smell was even clearer now.

Prenatal tonic…

My husband's mistress was pregnant. And I, his wife, was drinking the so-called "precious" tonic he brought me every day.

The truth was peeling back layer by layer like an onion, stinging my eyes.

What I drank wasn't tonic at all.

It was the dregs of his mistress's medicine.

He gave the potent first brew to his precious darling.

Then he took the leftovers, boiled them again, and fed them to his dying wife like slop.

It was disgusting.

It was utterly revolting.

"Ugh—"

As I hung over the toilet, retching my guts out, I heard the last sound I wanted to hear.

The hospital room door opened again.

"Brenna? I forgot my phone here."

It was Vincent! He came back!

My heart stopped, my blood froze.

I couldn't let him find out!

With all my strength, I slammed my hand on the flush lever. The loud rush of water drowned out my ragged gasps.

I turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on my face, forcing a smile at my reflection in the mirror.

"What's wrong? Not feeling well again?" Vincent's voice came from the doorway, tinged with concern.

I turned, leaning against the sink, feigning weakness.

"It's nothing. Just the usual, side effects from the chemo."

I even managed to give him a grateful, apologetic smile.

"Thank you, honey. The medicine today… it was good."

Seeing my pale but obedient face, Vincent relaxed completely. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, gave me a few more instructions, and finally left for good.

After he was gone, all strength left my body. I slid down the wall onto the cold tile floor.

It took a long time before I struggled back to bed.

I picked up the backup phone and, almost against my will, opened that encrypted album again.

Like a masochist, I scrolled through, numb, until the last one.

The screen lit up. My breath stopped completely.

The scene was our master bedroom and our marital bed.

And there was Cathryn, wearing my favorite silk nightgown, lying on my side of the bed.

Her collarbone was dotted with intimate red marks.

It was a photo of them having sex.

I stared at the phone screen, unable to look away.

My home, the one I'd filled with love and care.

My parents' last gift to me had become their filthy love nest.

A wave of dizziness hit me. Black spots danced before my eyes, and I almost fell off the bed.

I grabbed the bedside rail, gasping for air. My stomach churned violently, but there was nothing left to vomit.

How dare Vincent?

How could he?

How could he switch between his dying wife and his new lover so effortlessly, so easily?

Overwhelming nausea washed over me.

Tears were useless. I couldn't cry.

I remembered the hidden cameras we'd installed during renovations years ago. Vincent said he'd removed them.

"With me here to protect you, that's all you need," he'd said.

Did he really remove them?

I logged into the home security system account using the old phone.

The camera in the master bedroom was still online.

The feed loaded.

Cathryn was there, lounging on my marital bed, slowly sitting up. She waddled to my vanity, picked up my lipstick to test the color, then spritzed my perfume into the air.

Every movement felt like a slow, deliberate torture.

Stay calm, Brenna Lewis. You had to stay calm.

She made a call, her voice sugary sweet. "Vincent, you spent the whole day with her. Isn't that enough? The baby misses Daddy… Okay, come home soon. I'll wear your favorite one and wait for you."

After hanging up, she hummed a tune, opened my closet, and started pulling out my clothes one by one, holding them up, then tossing them on the floor with a look of disgust.

"Such bad taste."

She made another call, this time on speaker.

"Mom, all of Brenna's things are such an eyesore. Once she's dead, I'm throwing everything out and redecorating."

My mother-in-law's voice was fawning. "Yes, yes, whatever you want. You're the one who saved the Jenkins family line."

"Mom, what about that heirloom jade bracelet? When do I get it? You promised."

"It's ready for you! That barren woman was never worthy. If it weren't for the Lewis family's money back then…"

I muted the sound.

My fingernails dug into my palms until they went numb.

Suddenly, I remembered my father's words. "Never put all your trust in one person."

Besides what Vincent knew, my father had installed a more concealed system, encrypted with his and my mother's information.

Vincent never knew.

I entered a string of commands on the backup phone.

The screen flickered. Four new camera feeds lit up simultaneously—living room, study, kitchen, front door.

Cathryn had changed into an expensive maternity dress. She walked to the living room, picked up the only family photo of me and my parents from the coffee table.

She studied it for a few seconds, a contemptuous smirk curling her lips.

Then, she casually tossed it into the trash bin.

My breath hitched.

I turned on the recording function, saving every frame.

Night deepened.

Cathryn, well-fed and relaxed, lay on my sofa watching TV, the picture of the lady of the house.

When she finally turned off the TV and got up with a yawn, her gaze fell on the huge wedding photo on the wall.

She walked over slowly, looking up at it for a long time.

Then, she smiled.

It was the triumphant smile of a victor.

She extended a finger tipped with crimson nail polish and lightly traced it over my face in the photo.

"Brenna… Brenna," she murmured softly, as if chatting with an old friend. "How could you be so stupid? Did you really think Vincent loved you? He told me back in college—marrying you was just because your family background was clean and easy to control. You were useful to stabilize his image. A respectable ornament. Who knew you'd have such bad luck, getting this disease."

She sighed, but her eyes gleamed.

"But maybe it's better this way. Saves me the trouble of making you sign divorce papers. You die, and it's all nice and clean. Your house, your money, your man… they'll all belong to me and my son soon."

She paused, and her smile suddenly turned vicious, twisted.

"Oh, right. There's something you probably never knew."

Her voice dropped to a whisper, like a snake's hiss.

"Three years ago, on your birthday, when you were at the hospital for chemo, your parents' car accident wasn't an accident."

My blood froze solid.

On the screen, her lips moved, each word a poisoned nail. "I originally thought, families should stay together. Too bad you were lucky… you weren't in the car."

She stroked her rounded belly, smiling brightly at my image in the photo. "See, baby? This lady will be going to join her mommy and daddy very soon. This time, nothing will go wrong."

No.

I wouldn't die.

The ones who should die were them.

I turned off the monitor. The phone screen went dark. My eyes held a calm I'd never felt before.

Crying, accusing, breaking down—they were useless.

To fight monsters, you have to use their own methods.

Vincent, Cathryn, did you want me to die?

Fine. I would die for you first.

I would let you watch me, this "dying woman," walk step by step toward the grave you dug for me.

I'll wait until you let your guard down and wait until you grow overconfident right before my eyes.

Then I'll crawl out of hell myself and drag you both down with me!

The first step: I had to find the strongest backing.

I found the backup phone, my finger hovering over a number. It was my aunt, Hilary Lewis.

Years ago, I had a huge fight with her over Vincent.

She'd said, "Brenna, that man will chew you up and spit you out one day."

Her words became a prophecy.

The phone rang only once before connecting.

"Brenna?"

Her voice was as brisk as ever, but with a trace of concern she couldn't quite hide.

I swallowed the sob rising in my throat. "Auntie, I need your help."

"Speak." Her voice was firm, without hesitation.

"First. Find my bone marrow donor. Bypass Vincent and his cousin. I need to contact them directly."

There was a two-second silence on the other end.

"Vincent is trouble?" She went straight for the jugular.

"Second," I continued without answering, "find me a top-notch private investigator. Discreet. Clean hands."

"Understood." My aunt didn't press for details. "You'll have the investigator's contact within thirty minutes. I'll handle the bone marrow matter personally."

"Brenna," Hilary added before hanging up, "the Lewis family does not go down without a fight. No matter what happens, I'm here."

The call ended.

In less than ten minutes, an encrypted message arrived. I dialed the number.

"Ms. Lewis, this is Mr. Larson." The voice was steady, no nonsense.

"I need you to investigate two things," my voice was ice-cold. "First, the medicine my husband brings me daily. Its composition and source. Second, 24/7 surveillance on Vincent and Cathryn. I want all their movements, calls, and financial records."

With everything arranged, I deleted all call logs and messages, then hid the phone again.

The first piece of my game was in place.

The next morning, Vincent arrived right on time.

He seemed in unusually high spirits, a suppressed joy in his eyes.

He probably had a wonderful night with Cathryn in my marital bed.

He set the thermal lunchbox on the nightstand, helped me sit up with practiced ease, and gently placed a soft pillow behind my back.

"Brenna, how are you feeling today? Sleep well last night?"

I feigned extreme weakness, shaking my head with effort.

"Not… not so good. No strength. Dizzy."

He immediately frowned, his eyes full of feigned concern as he touched my forehead.

"Why are you so cold? Is the chemo hitting you hard again? I'll go get Brice right now."

"No…" I grabbed his sleeve, looking at him with timid eyes. "Don't bother him… I just… didn't sleep well. I'll be fine after resting."

My show of weakness worked.

Worry deepened in his eyes. He didn't insist on the doctor, just brought over the bowl of dark, bitter liquid.

"Here, drink your medicine first. It's good for you. You'll feel stronger after."

Looking at that bowl of foul-smelling dregs, I fought back nausea and nodded.

As he turned to get a spoon, I swiftly pulled a pre-prepared small, clear ziplock bag from under the pillow.

He scooped up a spoonful, blew on it, and brought it to my lips.

I obediently drank. Then, as he looked down to scoop another spoonful, I turned my head sharply and spit a small portion of the medicinal residue into my palm. In one smooth motion, I slipped it into the bag and back under the pillow.

"What's wrong?" He seemed to notice something, looking up.

"It's… nothing," I turned back instantly, forcing a weak smile. "Just… too bitter."

He didn't suspect, just coaxed me in an even gentler tone. "Be good. Good medicine is bitter. Finish this bowl, and I'll give you some candy."

He was talking to me like a toddler.

Suppressing the hatred and disgust in my heart, I drank down the bowl of dregs, sip by sip.

After I finished, he smiled, satisfied, and started chattering about funny things at the office, trying to cheer me up.

I just closed my eyes, pretending to be drowsy, keeping my breathing light and slow.

He stayed by my bed for a while, probably confirming I was asleep, then stood up and walked to the window to make a call.

He lowered his voice, but in the silent room, it was terrifyingly clear.

"Baby, don't cry. I told you the marrow is definitely ours. Just focus on taking care of yourself and the baby."

His tone was one of tenderness and affection I'd never heard before.

"I'll handle Brenna. She doesn't suspect a thing. Don't overthink it, okay? What if you get upset and it affects our son?"

"How long can she possibly last? The doctor said months. Just be patient a little longer. Once she's gone, I'll marry you right away."

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood to keep from making a sound.

After hanging up, he sat by my bed a while longer before leaving.

The moment he was gone, I took out my phone and sent a message to detective Dylan Larson.

"Sample acquired. 3 PM today, I will go to the garden for a walk. Send someone."

After doing this, I felt completely drained.

At 3 PM, as planned, I insisted on going for a walk in the hospital garden, dragging my weak body.

The nurse couldn't dissuade me.

The garden was mostly empty.

I sat on a secluded bench and hid the small ziplock bag under a loose paver.

A few minutes later, a man in janitor's uniform pushed a trash cart over, unhurried. He pretended to sweep leaves near my bench, then naturally bent down to reposition the loose paver.

We made no eye contact the entire time.

Now, everything was ready. I just needed the right moment.

I needed a trigger to make Vincent completely believe my time was almost up.

I needed to put on the most convincing performance of my life, right in front of him.

That evening, Vincent came back with porridge.

He brought a spoonful to my lips.

Just as I swallowed half of it, I suddenly clutched my chest and began coughing violently.

"Brenna?" He panicked, dropping the bowl to pat my back.

Now was the time.

I grabbed a tissue, coughing as if my lungs would tear.

When I pulled the tissue away, a shocking, vivid red stain bloomed on the white paper.

Vincent stared at the blood, frozen in place.