He Chose The Mistress, She Signed Her Own Death Certificate
Eight years of devotion crumbled under one calculated betrayal.
Diagnosed with a terminal illness and given only a year, Olivia faced heartbreak when her husband cheated with a student she had sponsored and asked for divorce.
"She only has a year to live... can't you let her have this?" he pleaded, unaware Olivia hid the same fate.
Without protest, she signed and returned to science, determined to leave something behind.
Believing they'd reunite, he waited-never knowing she was running out of time.
During a clinical trial, she burned through her final days.
Only after her death did he learn the truth, collapsing in regret. "Olivia... I was wrong."
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Chapter 4
Olivia barely managed to flag down a taxi and haul herself into the back seat; the agony was so sharp and relentless that she instinctively curled into a ball, her breathing coming in ragged, desperate gasps.
At that same moment, Callum's black Cayenne surged past, its engine letting out a low roar as it disappeared into the thick of the traffic.
Settled behind the wheel, Callum was already focused on his call with Kaylee.
"It's over now. Don't carry any guilt—she and I made this decision together. I'm heading your way now, and I'll make sure to pick up your favorite bouquet."
Fighting a losing battle against the pain, Olivia used her fading strength to dial a familiar number, but the darkness claimed her before she could utter a single word.
Olivia felt as though she had been wandering through an endless, suffocating void for an eternity.
It was as if she had traversed jagged peaks and struggled through rising currents; the metallic, haunting scent of her own life force ebbed away.
Though her spirit was flagging and every muscle screamed for rest, a flicker of raw survival instinct kept pushing her forward, refusing to let her give in.
Centuries seemed to pass before the low murmur of voices reached her, accompanied by the sterile, clinical sting of disinfectant. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered open.
A blurred, towering silhouette began to take shape in her field of vision.
Driven by a deep-seated instinct, she breathed a single name into the quiet. "Callum..."
"Olivia!" The figure moved closer, and a soothingly cool palm settled against her brow.
As the fog finally cleared, the features of the man standing over her came into sharp focus.
The man wasn't Callum; instead, it was Michael Scott, her friend since childhood.
He had once been the undisputed star of their medical school, a brilliant mind who had half the female student body trailing in his wake.
Now, he stood as the head of hematology in an exclusive hospital, his handsome features framed by rimless glasses that lent him a sophisticated, scholarly charm.
The memories of the taxi ride flooded back, and a trace of bitter irony touched her lips. "So you saved me again."
The sound of her whispering Callum's name still echoed in Michael's mind, sending a sharp, familiar pang of hurt through his chest.
For over ten years, he had carried a silent crush on her, well aware that Callum held a permanent, untouchable lease on her heart. Letting out a weary sigh, he retrieved her phone and handed it back to Olivia.
"I've reviewed your complete lab results. It's grimmer than we anticipated—you're at risk of burning it out at any second. Do you want me to call Callum?"
Olivia pushed herself up against the headboard, her movements slow but determined. She gave a faint shake of her head, her voice eerily steady. "We're going through a divorce."
Michael went completely still.
"He's marrying Kaylee," she added flatly.
The device tumbled from Michael's hand onto the mattress. The revelation hit him like a physical blow, leaving him reeling.
Olivia met his eyes with a faint, ironic smile.
"Kaylee's claim is that she's terminal with only a year left. Her final request was to have Callum by her side, and he didn't hesitate to say yes."
"That absolute bastard!" Michael hissed, his hands curling into tight fists. "You're on the same clock! How can he just walk away from his wife for someone else?"
He pivoted, intent on tracking Callum down for a reckoning.
Olivia caught his arm. "Michael, honestly, I feel a sense of relief. At least I won't die under the delusion that he ever actually loved me. Imagine how pathetic it would be to meet my parents in the afterlife still holding onto a lie."
She tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with a momentary warmth that reminded him of the woman she used to be—vibrant, happy, and untouched by tragedy.
If only that one moment in time hadn't shattered everything.
Michael fought back tears, forcing a professional mask into place. "I'm starting your admission paperwork."
"Don't bother," she countered. "We both know this is incurable. I'm not spending my final year in a sterile room. I have work to do. Just keep this between us—no one else can know. My time is too valuable to waste on drama."
Recognizing her stubborn resolve, Michael gave a pained nod. He insisted on a twenty-four-hour observation period and ordered a nurse to start her on fresh IV nutritional fluids.
As the fluids slowly entered her system, Olivia reached out to Peter Ford, the director at the Oasis Research Institute, to initiate the revival of the Beacon project.
The Beacon project was her parents' legacy, a mission they had poured everything into before their lives were cut short in a tragic accident halfway through its development.
Without their leadership, the remaining team couldn't sustain the initiative, and the project was shelved indefinitely.
Olivia had been paralyzed by grief for years, unable to face the work her parents left behind or the crushing realization that finishing the Beacon project was their ultimate final wish.
The weight of her inaction felt like a betrayal.
"Olivia, I'm thrilled you're ready to bring the Beacon project back to life—it's a ray of hope for so many blood disease patients," Peter said, his voice thick with worry. "You have my full backing, but that drug trial you just finished was brutal on your system. You need at least six months of rest and regular monitoring. The project isn't going anywhere; we can wait until you're healthy."
A hollow smile touched her lips. Time was the one luxury she no longer possessed.
The physical toll was irreversible; even the most brilliant medical minds couldn't pull her back from the edge now.
"I appreciate the concern, Peter, but there's no time for that. Let's get things going as soon as possible. I'll be there tomorrow morning."
Following a long beat of hesitation, Peter finally gave in.
Olivia let out a shaky breath as she ended the call, only for a sharp irritation to seize her throat. She yanked the IV from her vein and stumbled to the bathroom, barely making it to the sink before coughing up a spray of crimson.
She frantically scrubbed the basin, her heart hammering with the fear that Michael would find the evidence and force her to stay bedridden in the hospital.
Once the sink was spotless, she headed for the door to summon a nurse for the IV. Her footsteps stopped cold when a live news broadcast caught her eye on the hallway monitor.
The screen showed a swarm of reporters outside the Jackson Group's R&D facility, all clamoring around Kaylee.
Callum stood tall at her side, his powerful silhouette commanding the attention of everyone in the frame.
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7.3
"This... this is wrong," she stuttered, trying not to meet his eyes. "You're my stepfather. Let's forget it ever happened."
"How can I forget it happened, Nicole?" He questioned, gripping her chin. "When the image of you whimpering for more replays in my head every fucking night?"
When one night of desperation turns into Nicole ending up in bed with a nameless stranger, she's almost shocked to death when she moves in with her mother's new husband to see that the nameless stranger is her new stepfather.
Tristan Michelson has always been in control of his emotions, but he can barely control himself when he realizes the masked stripper is his new stepdaughter.
9.5
Jennifer, a fiercely independent entrepreneur, never imagined that running her company would put her in the orbit of Joseph, a reclusive billionaire with a dangerous agenda. Their professional clashes ignite a forbidden attraction, drawing them into a passionate affair that threatens to unravel everything Jennifer has built. As corporate sabotage, hidden heirs, and dark secrets from Joseph's past begin to surface, Jennifer's world spirals into a web of betrayal, desire, and moral peril. In a story where power and love collide, nothing is as it seems and every choice could be lethal.
7.5
I was tied to a concrete pillar in an abandoned warehouse, the heavy stench of gasoline suffocating me.
Ten steps away, a masked kidnapper slammed a loaded Glock onto a metal barrel and forced my husband, Alvie, to make a sick choice.
"The wife or the mistress. You only get to walk out of here with one."
Alvie didn't even blink.
He walked straight toward the dark corner where his mistress, Gail, was crying. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, shielding her, and guided her toward the exit.
He never looked back. He didn't cast a single glance over his shoulder. To him, I was already a corpse, just trash left on the pavement.
The kidnapper laughed and tossed a lighter onto the soaked concrete floor.
A wall of ghostly blue fire erupted instantly, swallowing me whole. The absolute agony of my skin blistering and melting shattered my sanity.
In my last moments, consumed by the inferno, I couldn't understand how the man I had loved and served so submissively could leave me to burn alive. My heartbreak quickly morphed into a hatred far deeper than the flames.
Then, I violently jerked awake.
I shot up from the bed, gasping for cold air, my hands frantically checking my perfectly smooth, unburned skin.
I looked at the desk clock. I had returned to exactly four years ago, the morning of the annual Gallagher family gathering.
The fragile, naive wife died in that warehouse. This time, I am going to destroy them both.
8.1
On my wedding day, the wedding planner looked at me with pity in her eyes.
She told me the groom had called with a last-minute request. He wanted the name on the floral arch changed from "Elena" to "Sofia."
Five years of loyalty to Dante Romero, and I found out he was planning a "secret" ceremony with his mistress an hour before ours.
He claimed she was dying of cancer. He said it was her final wish to be a bride, and that as a good mafia wife, I should understand. He swore it was just charity.
But I had seen the texts where he called me "furniture."
I had watched him step over my body when I fell down the stairs at a club, just so he could leave with her.
And this morning, I watched Sofia walk into the hotel lobby wearing *my* custom French lace wedding dress, smirking as she clung to his arm.
Dante thinks I'm crying in the bridal suite.
He thinks I will sit in the front row of his "fake" wedding and wait for my turn like a dutiful puppet.
He is wrong.
I wiped my tears and picked up my phone. I didn't cancel the wedding date. I just changed the location to the ballroom next door.
And I changed the groom.
As Dante says his vows to his mistress, I am walking down the aisle to meet the only man the Romero family fears.
The Reaper.
8.1
I skipped my final lab review in Geneva and endured a fourteen-hour flight to surprise my husband for our fourth wedding anniversary.
Instead, looking through the window of our beachfront estate, I saw him playing the perfect, loving father to a "tragic widow's" daughter, kissing the widow with practiced, casual intimacy.
Fleeing in pure panic, I got into a horrific car crash.
Waking up in the VIP hospital room, I kept my eyes shut and heard my husband talking to his best friend right beside my bed.
"She's just a party girl who knows how to swipe a black card. I only play the part because I need her father's proxy vote for the IPO."
"Every time I have to touch her in bed, it feels like a corporate obligation. It makes me sick."
Later, even my own father demanded I step down from my company role and publicly welcome the mistress, just to protect the family's investment in the upcoming ten-billion-dollar IPO.
Four years of marriage and quiet humiliations, all reduced to a calculated lie. They all thought I was just a brainless, hysterical socialite who could be easily manipulated and discarded.
They didn't know that the core anti-aging algorithm his entire empire relied on was secretly built by me.
I calmly pulled out my phone and texted my divorce lawyer.
"I want him bankrupt. On the day his company rings the bell, I am going to burn his entire life to the ground."
8.8
My little boy died on the operating table during a minor, routine surgery.
That exact same night, my billionaire husband bought out the Hudson River for a massive, million-dollar fireworks show.
It wasn't to mourn our child. It was to celebrate his first love's son being discharged from the hospital.
When I confronted him with our son's death certificate, he sneered and accused me of hiding the boy to get his attention.
He held his mistress in our home, watched her fake a panic attack, and threatened to bankrupt my family if I didn't get on my knees and apologize to her.
But the most horrifying truth came from a terrified hospital nurse.
My son's anesthesia was deliberately kept low during the procedure to keep his tissue viable to save the mistress's child.
He was awake and in agonizing pain while his own father planned a grand celebration for another man's son.
I couldn't understand how a father could be so completely heartless.
How could he sacrifice his own flesh and blood just to please a woman who constantly manipulated him?
Looking at the ashes on my son's favorite toy, my paralyzing grief evaporated, replaced by a cold, unyielding rage.
I arranged my little boy's funeral alone in the freezing rain, left my wedding ring on the counter, and walked straight into the private hotel suite of my husband's most ruthless business rival.
"Let's take him down," I said.