The "Dying Wife" He Abandoned: Too Late to Regret

Outside the emergency room, the lights were harsh and colorless.

Bella sat on a metal bench. She was still wearing the bloodstained white gown, like a ruined canvas left to rot.

Her makeup had melted.

Black streaks ran down her face where her eyeliner had bled.

The moment she saw me, she sprang to her feet.

"It was you!" she shrieked, pointing at me with trembling fingers. "You cursed him! Ethan is just overworked. It's just low blood sugar!"

She was hysterical.

"You're here to see if he's dead, aren't you? You vicious woman!"

Nurses nearby frowned and signaled for her to lower her voice.

I ignored her.

A doctor stepped out. His expression was grave.

"The patient is conscious. But he's experiencing numbness on one side of his body. This is—"

"Stop talking!" Bella cut him off. "He's fine! We're transferring him. To the best private hospital!"

I pushed past Bella and walked into the room.

Ethan was propped up against the hospital bed. One side of his body looked stiff.

He was awake, though, his eyes dark and calculating.

When he saw me, he let out a cold laugh.

"What? Here to enjoy the show?" He was still posturing.

"I'm fine. Just exhausted lately. Don't even think about using this to grab control."

I stood at the foot of the bed.

I opened my Birkin bag.

For the past month, I had carried it everywhere, like a loaded weapon.

I unzipped the inner pocket and pulled out an envelope.

The edges were worn from use.

I slid out the document inside.

I had read that page countless times. Every word was etched into my memory.

At the bottom right corner was the official seal of Crownport Central Presbyterian Hospital.

The sound was sharp.

I slapped the report across Bella's face.

The edge of the paper scraped her cheek, leaving a thin red line.

It fluttered down onto the blanket and lay open.

"Read it carefully." I pointed at the bold print. "Glioblastoma, Stage IV."

Ethan's eyes locked onto the word.

His pupils contracted violently.

"Compression of the optic nerve. Seizures. Loss of visual fields. Limb numbness." I looked at Bella. "The terminal diagnosis was never mine."

I pointed at the man in the bed.

"It's your sugar daddy."

The air seemed to freeze.

Bella picked up the paper. Her hands trembled.

"No… no, that's impossible…"

She shook her head frantically.

"It's fake! You forged it!"

The doctor walked in holding an iPad. The screen displayed the freshly taken brain CT scan.

"Mr. Vance, based on the imaging, the tumor has spread—"

"I don't want to hear it!" Bella screamed.

She snatched the iPad from the doctor's hands and hurled it to the floor.

The screen shattered.

"You're in this together! You bribed a hacker! You tampered with the data!" She pointed at the doctor, then at me. "You teamed up to trick me! Ethan is so young. How could he possibly have a terminal illness?"

She couldn't allow herself to believe it.

If she did, her dream of marrying into wealth, her 3 million dollar diamond, all of it would vanish.

Ethan stared at the paper.

His face had gone ashen.

Then he started laughing. The sound was dry and brittle.

"Ridiculous." He tore the report into pieces. "Chloe, you'll really stoop this low just to get me back."

He was a textbook narcissist.

In the world he had built inside his head, he was the protagonist, the god. Gods wouldn't die.

"It's just low blood sugar." He threw back the blanket and tried to get out of bed.

His left leg buckled, and he nearly dropped to his knees.

Bella rushed to steady him.

"Exactly, sweetheart. You're just exhausted." She clung to the explanation like it was oxygen.

Ethan shoved the doctor aside.

"I'm checking out."

He straightened his wrinkled hospital gown. His hands trembled, but his chin lifted defiantly.

"The wedding is happening next week as planned. On Saint Brune Isle."

He looked at me with open malice.

"I'll let the whole world watch me get married. I'll stabilize the stock price. Your lies will collapse on their own."

The doctor tried to intervene. "Mr. Vance, this is suicidal behavior—"

"Get out of my way!" Ethan shouted.

He was breathing heavily now, sweat beading across his forehead.

"Bella, get the car ready. Tell PR to release a statement. Say it was… overexertion."

I looked at the two of them.

One pretending to be blind for money. The other pretending to be asleep for survival.

I closed my bag.

"Fine," I said. "I'll attend."

Ethan paused, caught off guard.

"I'll witness your wedding." I smiled faintly and turned toward the door. "After all, it would be a shame to miss such a spectacular rehearsal for a funeral."