While My Mother Died

My mother had a rare disease. After months of dead ends, I found one person in the country who could treat her.

She told me there was a price. She said she needed a husband.

I agreed. For my mother, I agreed. For six years I was her ATM.

I bought her the bags. I bought her the watches.

It got worse. She used my money to keep a kept man. She brought him into our bed. The day my mother had her last surgery, she walked out of the operating room halfway through to go celebrate her lover's birthday.

The moment they pronounced my mother dead, I decided there and then, she was paying for that with her life.

Six years ago, my mother was diagnosed with a rare condition. She had weeks at most.

There was one doctor in the country who could treat it. Her name was Diana Crane.

I called every contact I had just to get a meeting. The first sentence out of her mouth was,

"I'll treat her, but I have one condition."

I said the obvious thing. "Money is not a problem."

My father had died when I was three. My mother had raised me alone. I was finally established in business when she got sick. For her, I would have spent every cent I had.

Diana shook her head. "Not money. I need a husband."

I clenched my teeth and agreed.

For her to live, I would have done anything.

It was not a bad trade on paper. Diana was three years older, a medical doctor, and attractive.

At the start, we kept up appearances. I handled her family obligations. She treated my mother.

Then I started to notice.

The supplementary card on my account was being used for hundred-thousand-dollar spending sprees. Within six months, Diana was dressed head to toe in luxury brands. The house was filled with designer bags and watches she barely used.

I let it go. My mother still needed her. Compared to my mother's life, the money meant nothing.

Besides, women like to spend. Spending on your own wife isn't a big deal.

However, her appetite kept growing.

Even six-figure purchases were no longer enough. When I went to pay a supplier, I realized the card–with a two-million balance–could not be used at all.

That night, I came home early to ask what she had bought.

The moment I opened the door, I saw Diana leaning in the arms of a young man.

They were holding hands, lips pressed together, completely absorbed in each other.

Marco grinned. "Thanks for the car, babe. The guys are going to be insanely jealous."

Diana did not care. "It's just a car, Marco. Stay with me, and you'll have whatever you want."

Marco wrapped an arm around her waist, his voice soft. "I don't want anything. I just want you."

They were about to kiss again.

I could not hold it in anymore. I strode forward.

"Diana, you used my money to buy him a car?"

Neither of them moved apart.

Marco looked at me sideways, his face full of disdain. "So this is your useless husband?"

Useless?

So that's how she talked about me behind my back.

A surge of anger shot to my head.

"Watch your mouth."

Diana shot him a look, half-amused. "Be polite. He's my ATM."

Marco burst out laughing. He tapped my face with the keycard in his hand. "Come on, ATM. Spit out some cash. I'm heading out to buy drinks."

The card jabbed against my face again and again. Cold. Sharp.

Diana stood there watching, a faint, unreadable smile on her lips.

Finally, I snapped.

I slapped his hand away and drove a fist into his face.

"And you think you can get away with screwing my wife? I'll beat you to death right here!"