"Blood... Why is she coughing blood..."

He muttered, a trace of genuine panic slipping into his voice.

I didn't give him time to react. I went limp, collapsing toward him.

I heard his voice crack as he shouted and the urgent blare of the nurse call button.

This was just the beginning.

Next, I would make him watch as I died bit by bit right in front of him.

I woke up to the smell of antiseptic.

Vincent's face filled my vision, etched with panic and fear.

Seeing my eyes open, he lunged forward, gripping my hand tightly, his voice trembling.

"Brenna! You're awake! You scared me to death!"

His hands were cold and clammy.

I blinked weakly, my lips moving without sound, perfectly playing the part of someone who'd just returned from death's door.

Soon, a doctor and several nurses entered.

Seeing it was the other doctor, Vincent asked, "Where's Dr. Fuller?"

"Dr. Fuller is in surgery. Sir, rest assured, I'm familiar with the patient's case."

The doctor replied before conducting a series of checks. He then called Vincent aside.

"Sir, the prognosis is not optimistic. This was an acute hemorrhage, indicating the cancer cells in her body have begun to invade her organs uncontrollably. Her bodily functions are in systemic decline. We've done all we can."

He paused. "You need to prepare yourself. Optimistically speaking... perhaps only one or two months left."

Of course, this doctor and his script were arranged by Aunt Hilary through her connections here.

Otherwise, how could this performance be convincing?

Vincent's body swayed violently upon hearing this.

He braced himself against the wall to keep from falling.

Vincent, how much of this was real for you right now?

After the doctor and nurses left, Vincent sat by my bed all night.

He held my hand, adjusted my blankets, wiped cold sweat from my brow, murmuring endlessly about our past.

He told me about our first meeting, his proposal to me, and the funny moments from our honeymoon.

He spoke with such tenderness and passion.

And I? I just lay there with my eyes closed, silent.

Only this way could my next move proceed smoothly.

The next day, while Vincent went home to make me soup, I contacted detective Dylan again.

"I need you to install listening equipment in his study. The most discreet, secure kind. Real-time audio."

The study was his only private space, the place he was most likely to speak his mind when relaxed.

"Understood."

For the next two days, I spent most of my time in a state of feigned sleep. When I occasionally woke, I appeared dazed, unresponsive to anything. Vincent fed me porridge, I ate. He gave me medicine, I swallowed.

He talked to me, and I just stared back with hollow eyes.

My condition made him believe more and more that I was truly at the end of my rope.

On the third evening, a message came from detective Dylan.

"Done. Device installed in base of his study desk lamp. Signal routed to your encrypted channel."

Reading this, my heart pounded uncontrollably.

My trap was set.

Now, I just waited for the fish to swim in.

Vincent stayed until dusk. As usual, he kissed my forehead, said he had company emails to handle at home, and told me to rest.

The moment he left, I pulled the backup phone and a pair of tiny wireless earbuds from under the pillow.

Putting in the earbuds, I connected to the encrypted live audio feed.

At first, there was only quiet, the sound of keyboard typing, papers rustling.

About half an hour later, a phone ringtone shattered the study's silence.

I heard Vincent answer. "Mom."

My mother-in-law's sharp, venomous voice came through the earbuds crystal clear the next second.

"Vincent! I heard that jinx is failing? Is it true? Is she really dying?"

Her tone was pure, unadulterated excitement and malice.

"Mom, keep your voice down. It's true. She hemorrhaged the night before last. The doctor says... a month or two at most."

"Wonderful! The heavens have finally opened their eyes!" My mother-in-law let out a burst of gleeful laughter. "That barren sow is finally getting out of our Jenkins family! I've always despised her, that sickly look all the time, so unlucky! Vincent, listen to me. You must not soften your heart now! She's almost gone. You have to keep a tight grip on that marrow. It absolutely cannot be wasted on her!"

I heard Vincent sigh, his words placating and obedient.

"Mom, relax. I have it under control. I've arranged everything regarding the bone marrow, and there won't be any mistakes. I've reassured Cathryn too. She's just focusing on waiting for our son to be born now."

"Good! Excellent!" Her voice was full of anticipation for the future. "I told you long ago, that woman was a barren jinx! Since she married into our family, have we had a single good day? And now this deadly disease... it's like she came to collect a debt! She can't have children, but Cathryn is carrying our grandson. Vincent, remember, the family line is more important than a single life! As for Brenna's illness... that's just her fate. She's occupied the position of Mrs. Jenkins for so many years. She should be grateful."

Word after word, phrase after phrase, they pierced my ears and my heart like steel needles.

So, in the eyes of Vincent and his mother, I was just a "barren sow," a "debt-collecting jinx."

My only value was reproduction.

Once I lost that value, my life could be left to fate.

For three years, I fought this disease, endured countless pains, believing the man I loved stood behind me.

Turned out, he and his whole family were just waiting for me to die.

Throughout the entire call, Vincent not only didn't defend me once, but either stayed silent or placated his mother.

"Mom, I know. I'll handle it."

I silently pressed the record button.

The call ended, but it took me a long time to recover.

Just as I was reeling from this venomous onslaught, another encrypted email from the investigator popped up.

I opened it. Inside were a series of high-definition photos of a document.

The investigator wrote, "We accessed Vincent's private office safe via technical means. This was the only document found inside."

My eyes fell on the document's title.

Last Will.

My breath stopped.

With trembling hands, I opened the photos one by one, reading the clauses.

It stated clearly that upon his death, all his personal assets, all our joint marital property, including his company shares, all properties and vehicles under our names, and bank deposits...

The sole designated beneficiary of everything was Cathryn and any future children she bore for him.

In the multiple pages of asset listings and distribution plans, my name, Brenna, his legal wife, did not appear a single time.

I had been completely, thoroughly erased.

What chilled me to the bone was the date at the end of the will.

Two years ago.

The notary's red seal glared painfully from the screen.

Two years ago, when I had just been diagnosed with leukemia, during my first round of chemotherapy, from that very moment, at my most painful, helpless, and needy time, he had already prepared this death warrant for me.

All the tenderness, unwavering loyalty, and deep affection he had shown me over the past two years—from the very beginning—was nothing but a grand deception, a carefully orchestrated scheme to keep me stable while ensuring his assets were safely transferred to his lover and illegitimate children.

I was just the most pitiful prop in the show he was putting on for everyone.

This will was irrefutable legal proof.

It pushed Vincent's crimes from the realm of mere ethics and morality straight into the territory of deliberate asset misappropriation and premeditated abandonment.

Staring at the cold document on my phone screen, I could no longer hold back, and I let out a soft, choked sob.

It wasn't sadness, nor was it anger.

It was the ultimate, bone-deep nausea of being utterly fooled, calculated against to the very marrow.

Vincent, you really, truly, never loved me at all.

It was late at night.

The hospital was dead silent, even the hallway lights looked weak and pathetic.

I couldn't sleep.

Not because of the hatred in my heart, but because of the pain in my body.

In the late stages of acute leukemia, the bone marrow sends waves of excruciating pain.

It felt like a swarm of ants relentlessly biting at my bones, or someone drilling into my marrow.

I curled up in agony, my forehead slick with cold sweat, my pajamas soaked through.

With a trembling hand, I reached for the call button on the bedside table.

Once, twice, three times.

The red indicator light glowed steadily, yet the corridor remained perfectly silent—no footsteps could be heard.

The night nurse was probably swamped or had dozed off.

The pain was getting worse. I didn't think I could take it anymore.

I needed painkillers. I needed help.

I couldn't wait any more.

Gritting my teeth, I forced myself up, my body weak as hell.

The second my feet hit the floor, dizziness hit me like a truck. I braced myself against the cold wall to keep from collapsing.

I moved like a newborn learning to walk—one shaky step at a time—toward the door.

My goal was the nurse's station. As long as I got there, I would be saved.

Right now, I was nothing but a helpless patient, my mind fixated on one thing: ending this torture.

I opened the ward door and, supporting myself against the wall, moved forward bit by bit.

The nighttime hospital hallway was eerily empty, making my heart race.

My room was at the end of the hall. Next to it was a VIP private room.

I knew that room was unoccupied because I had seen a nurse disinfecting it during the day.

However, as I dragged my sick body past the door of that private care suite, I heard a sound.

At first, it was just a faint, muffled sound. I assumed it was a groan of pain coming from one of the wards and paid no attention.

But then the sound became clearer.

It was a woman's voice. It was sweetly enticing, tremulous with desire, interwoven with the husky, labored moans of a man, accompanied by the squeaking and creaking of the bed being violently rocked—a mortifyingly suggestive sound.

My steps froze instantly.

This was a hospital and a VIP hospital room. How could this be happening?

Just as I began to think it was my imagination, the woman's voice spilled out, undisguised, through the crack of the tightly shut door.

The voice that followed was draped in lazy satisfaction, yet slurred with heavy discontent.

"Vincent, when the hell are you gonna break up with that dying bitch? I can't wait another day. Look at this place! Is it fit for anyone to stay? Why won't you transfer me to a better private clinic? Why do we have to stay in this dump?"

It was Cathryn.

I clamped my hand over my mouth to stop myself from screaming.

I heard Vincent's voice—rough from sex, but still dripping with affection.

"Baby, don't make a fuss. Listen to me, although the conditions here aren't great, it's still my cousin's territory. It's easier and more discreet for me to use any resources here. Whether it's arranging your checkups or handling the bone marrow matters, no one will find out."

"Convenient? Convenient for you to play the doting husband in front of your sick wife?" Cathryn's voice was dripping with jealousy and discontent.

"I tell you, Vincent, every time I think of you holding that woman's hand during the day, kissing her bald head, I feel sick! Do you still love her? Are you still hung up on her?"

I heard Vincent chuckle softly.

"Don't be ridiculous, my silly girl!" He said, "Don't you know who I love? I love only you, and our future son. As for her... " He paused, "You think I want to touch her? Every time I see her bloodless face and smell the medicine on her, I want to throw up. I'm just acting, baby. I have to make sure she stays meek, obedient, and causes us no trouble until she dies."

A brief silence, then came the more violent sound of the bed rocking, accompanied by Cathryn's triumphant, provocative giggle, dripping with victory.

"Smart move! Now kiss me again to make it up to me... Mmm... your wife isn't even dead yet, right next door... you're so bad... Aren't you afraid she'll hear?"

"Hear? She's probably writhing in pain right now, half-dead. No energy for that." Vincent's voice was thick with desire. "Baby, enough about her! You're ruining the mood. Let's continue. Let me love you properly..."

Boom!

In that very moment, the piercing, bone-deep pain within me miraculously vanished.

It disappeared without a trace, replaced by numbness that seeped into my very marrow, and a cold so profound it could freeze me solid.

My husband, in the very hospital where I lay critically ill, tormented by cancer pain worse than death itself.

In the VIP ward right next door to mine, he was with the mistress carrying his illegitimate child, entangled in their obscene, disgraceful act.

Not only did he intend to steal the bone marrow that was my lifeline, but he also abused his power to turn what should have been a sanctuary for healing into a sordid playground for his own pleasure.

This was the ultimate humiliation.

It was taking the last shreds of my dignity, my final vestige of humanity, and stamping them into the dirt, grinding them to dust.

I felt no rage. I shed no tears. My face was utterly, chillingly blank.

Like a ghost whose soul had been drained, I stood rigidly outside the door that separated two worlds, quietly listening to the sickening, rhythmic thuds and the intertwined, wanton moans of the man and woman inside.

I lay back on the icy hospital bed, eyes wide open in the boundless darkness and silence, staring at the stark white ceiling.

After a long while, I picked up my phone.

I found Hilary's number and sent an extremely brief, encrypted message.

"Auntie, initiate Plan B. I need to leave. Now. I can't stay another second."

Before dawn, her reply came.

"He is on his way. All proceeding per plan. Await his signal."

He?

Who was he?

No time to ponder. I deleted the messages, hid the phone again, closed my eyes, and waited.

At 9 A.M., Vincent walked into the room as usual, carrying the thermal lunchbox.

His face bore traces of tiredness from his night's activities, but his spirits were high, a smug satisfaction he couldn't quite hide dancing in his eyes.

"Brenna, an important client's daughter has her baptism party today. Can't stay with you at noon. I made you nutritional soup. Drink it while it's hot. I'll come back early tonight."

He ladled out the soup with practiced ease, the lie rolling off his tongue without a flicker of conscience.

I knew he wasn't going to any baptism party.

Dylan's latest intelligence had already reached my backup phone in the early morning. Vincent had scheduled a full prenatal checkup for Cathryn at the city's most exclusive private hospital at ten.

He was playing the doting father to his beloved son.

This provided the perfect window for my escape.

Looking at his nauseatingly hypocrite face, I nodded obediently.

"Alright... you go ahead. Don't worry about me."

Satisfied with my docility, he leaned down as usual and planted a perfunctory kiss on my bald head before leaving.

The moment the door closed, I poured his soup down the toilet.

Then, I gathered every single personal toiletry item in the bathroom bearing my trace and dumped it all in the trash.

I changed into a clean set of my own clothes.

Then, I sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for my extraction team.

10:30 AM, another message from Dylan confirmed Vincent's car had entered the private hospital's underground garage and he had accompanied Cathryn into the specialist's office. At least, it took two hours.

Almost at the same time, a knock came at my door.

It wasn't a nurse, nor was it Brice.

The man who walked in was tall and imposing. Behind him was a five-person team that looked supremely professional.

All wore immaculate white coats and masks, expressions serious.

The lead man wasn't masked. He wore well-tailored casual clothes, tall and straight. His features weren't stunning, but they were pleasant and composed.

"I'm Spencer Holland," he introduced himself simply, showing me a chat log with Hilary on his phone. "Hilary sent me to get you. From this moment, your safety is my responsibility."

So, he was Hilary's Plan B.

"Thank you," I said hoarsely.

Spencer wasted no time on pleasantries. He nodded to his team.

A female nurse swiftly hung a "Patient in Intensive Care, Do Not Disturb" sign on the door and skillfully disabled the door lock's sensor system.

Another nurse quickly removed the useless IV needle from the back of my hand, pressing a disinfectant cotton swab to the spot.

"Ms. Lewis, please relax. We will ensure your comfort and safety throughout."

I was smoothly transferred to a mobile gurney, covered with a sterile, temperature-controlled sheet.

Spencer himself wheeled the gurney. They didn't use the regular patient routes. Instead, they accessed a staff-only elevator requiring a special key card, taking it directly to the hospital's underground parking exit.

A black, privately-marked ambulance with special plates was already waiting.

The doors opened. I was quickly loaded inside.

The vehicle drove off smoothly and swiftly, without sirens, leaving the hospital that held all my nightmares behind.

The ambulance sped through the city, finally stopping at a highly secluded private helipad.

A small medical transport plane stood ready on the runway, engines humming low.

I was transferred from the ambulance onto the plane.

Lying on the comfortable bed in the cabin, I looked out the small window one last time, gazing down the city that held all my love, hate, and pain.

The skyscrapers, the traffic… everything grew smaller, fainter, disappearing behind the clouds.

Goodbye, Vincent.

Goodbye, my dead love.

Once the plane leveled off in the stratosphere, I struggled to sit up.

Spencer, who had been quietly working on documents opposite me, immediately stood, adjusted the bed, and placed a soft pillow behind my back.

"Thank you. There's one more thing I need to trouble you with."

Spencer didn't ask what, just nodded.

I took out the paper and pen I'd prepared.

I wrote out a divorce agreement. At the end, I signed my name without hesitation.

Then, on another sheet, I wrote just one line.

"Vincent, the game is over. I want none of what's yours. Not even your filthy life."

I placed both documents, along with copies of all the evidence I'd gathered, into a manila envelope.

I handed it to Spencer.

"Can you have this placed back on the nightstand in my hospital room?" I looked at him. "It's my final gift to him."

Spencer looked at me, silent for a few seconds, then accepted the envelope solemnly.

"Alright."

With that done, a sense of relief washed over me, unlike anything I'd ever felt.

I had made the most complete break with my past.

Now, I was flying toward my new life.

...

At 3 PM, Vincent had finished the full prenatal check-up with Cathryn.

When the doctor handed him the clear 3D ultrasound image, pointing to the blurry shape on the screen, smiling and saying, "All indicators are perfectly healthy. A very lively boy," Vincent felt his life had reached a state of fulfillment he had never known before.

He carefully tucked the ultrasound image inside his jacket, as if it were a priceless treasure.

After settling the tired Cathryn, he glanced at his Patek Philippe. Time to head back to the hospital.

He'd already prepared his excuse. The baptism party was too lively, he'd been forced to drink too much, and had passed out in a lounge.

Brenna always did whatever he said. She would believe anything after a few sweet words.

He carried a newly purchased container of hot soup back to her room.

He imagined pushing the door open to see her sickly face, still full of dependence and adoration for him.

Instead, pushing the door open, he was met with an empty room.

The room was scrubbed unnaturally clean, almost devoid of personal items, the air thick with disinfectant.

The familiar hospital bed was made with military precision, as if no one had ever occupied it long-term.

The smile froze on Vincent's face.

"Brenna? Brenna Lewis?"

Vincent called out her name in stunned disbelief, a trace of panic in his voice he didn't recognize.

He rushed into the bathroom. It was empty.

He yanked open the closet. Only a few hospital gowns remained.

Where was she?

His shock quickly turned to anger. He thought Brenna was throwing another tantrum.

Then, his eyes fell on the nightstand.

A manila folder lay there, silent and waiting.

Frowning, he strode over, snatched up the folder, and ripped it open.

Two items slipped out from inside.