Your Regret, My Revenge

The first item was a divorce agreement.

At the end, Brenna's familiar, yet resolute, signature.

The second item was a thick stack of A4 papers.

With trembling hands, he picked up the stack.

The top page contained just one line, written in Brenna's handwriting. "Vincent. Game over. I want none of what's yours. Not even your filthy life."

There were more pages below.

On the first page was the test report of the medicinal residues from the tonic he delivered daily, with red annotations indicating that these were the dregs of a decoction boiled twice from a pregnancy-nourishing formula, possessing almost no medicinal value.

The second page was a high-definition photo of the will he had notarized two years prior. Every clause clearly documented his premeditated plan to transfer all his assets to his mistress.

Further down were screenshots of his explicit chat logs with Cathryn, copies of large bank transfers to her brother's company, photos of him accompanying Cathryn on walks, to prenatal checkups…

Each piece of evidence was like a resounding slap, striking his face with brutal force.

All his hypocrisy, all his schemes, all his lies—in this moment, they were stripped bare, exposed under the harsh light of day.

He had always believed himself to be the hunter in control, with Brenna as the gentle prey he manipulated at will.

Only now did he realize with horror that he was the fool who had long fallen into a trap, completely unaware.

He had been played!

A wave of immense shock and humiliation triggered instant fury.

He violently tore all the papers in his hands to shreds, roaring like an enraged beast in the hospital room. "Brenna! Show yourself! Do you think you can hide from me!"

Following the rage came an uncontrollable panic.

Frantically, he took out his phone and dialed Brenna's number.

The receiver delivered the cold, mechanical system message. "The number you have dialed is busy."

He tried calling her best friend's number. Without exception, every call was immediately hung up.

Grasping at his last straw, he dialed Hilary's number.

The call connected. Only one sentence came from the other end.

"Vincent, you will never see her again in this lifetime."

The call was then disconnected, leaving only the monotonous dial tone.

Vincent stood frozen. The phone slipped from his lifeless hand and clattered to the floor.

A terrifying truth, one he could not accept, gradually crystallized in his mind.

She wasn't just throwing a tantrum.

This wasn't her going missing.

She had truly, thoroughly, and methodically, vanished from his world.

He rushed out of the hospital, started his car, and sped through the city like a madman.

He went to their new home, to the art gallery she loved, to the restaurant of their first date.

There was no trace of her anywhere.

Every corner of the city was now devoid of that gentle figure that once belonged to him.

As night fell, Vincent parked his car by the river, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, his body trembling uncontrollably.

For the first time, he tasted the bitterness of losing control. For the first time, he felt the chill of despair.

He had lost her.

He had personally discarded the only warmth in his life.

...

The private medical jet landed smoothly at the private airport in the coastal city.

As the cabin door opened, I was greeted by a sea breeze carrying a salty dampness. It was utterly different from the suffocating smell of disinfectant in the domestic hospital. Here, the air was fresh. It was freedom.

I took a deep breath, feeling some of the stifling heaviness that had been lodged in my chest for so long begin to dissipate.

A professional medical team was already waiting on the tarmac. Efficient and swift, they offered no unnecessary pleasantries and transferred me directly to an ambulance.

Outside the window were azure skies and coconut trees. It all felt like an unreal dream.

My aunt, Hilary, was waiting for me at the hospital entrance. She didn't cry. There was no excessive sentimentality. She simply walked up and tightly grasped my icy hands.

The warmth transmitted from her palms was firm and powerful.

"Brenna, you're home," Hilary said.

Just those four words caused my tightly strung nerves to finally relax.

Tears fell without warning.

This was not the city that had brought me despair. There was no Vincent here. No lies.

This was the place for my fresh start.

My attending physician was a top expert in hematology, a kindly-looking elderly white man. He and his team conducted a rapid yet comprehensive evaluation.

The translator Hilary had hired clearly relayed the doctor's words to me.

"Ms. Lewis, your physical condition is somewhat better than we anticipated. More importantly, your willpower is very strong," the doctor said, looking into my eyes with an encouraging smile. "The donor's marrow viability is excellent. We can proceed with the transplant surgery immediately. The success rate will be very high."

How high was very high?

What I had always heard back home were phrases like "significant risk" or "not optimistic." Every time Vincent relayed the doctor's words, his face had been etched with grief and concern. Now, I understood that was merely part of his performance.

I looked into the eyes of the expert before me. They held pure confidence and professionalism, untainted by any ulterior motives.

I nodded, my voice slightly hoarse. "I'm ready."

I was wheeled into the sterile operating room.

A pure white ceiling. The regular beeping of monitors.

The anesthetist's voice was gentle, telling me to relax.

Before closing my eyes, the last thing I saw was Hilary's determined gaze through the isolation window.

The past twenty-some years of my life flashed through my mind like a black-and-white film. My parents' love, meeting Vincent, the torment of illness, and that final betrayal.

It was all time for it to end.

If I survived, I would live for no one but myself.

The anesthetic entered my bloodstream, and my consciousness sank into darkness.