The cheating husband was rushed to the hospital after being poisoned at his lover's place. She was sobbing uncontrollably, begging the doctor to save him. The doctor turned to me, seeking my approval.
"There's no point in wasting resources. Let's cease treatment," I declared decisively.
"How can you just decide to give up on him without trying to save him? He's your husband!" the mistress shouted, her voice choked with emotion.
"Because I'm his lawful wife," I replied calmly, with unwavering conviction. "And you don't have the legal authority to sign."
---
"Ruby, how should I celebrate your divorce from Anderson? Should I cook him a dinner he loves? Lobster, Merlot, and his favorite dessert..." Colette mocked me over the phone. I hung up quietly and prepared dinner for the evening.
At the dinner table, Anderson abruptly mentioned divorce.
His reason? "Colette is pregnant with my family's heir. I can't let them suffer."
Not even a year had passed since my miscarriage, and there he was, pushing divorce papers at me.
Colette, who had once worked in our home, had been having an affair with Anderson during my pregnancy.
Dinner ended in tense silence because I refused to agree to the divorce. I had no other options, so why should he get off the hook?
After a few heated exchanges, his phone rang.
"The house, the car, and the savings can be yours. I'll leave with nothing. What more do you want? If you drag this out, I'll make sure you end up with nothing," he threatened before answering the call, his tone softening. “Yes, you and the baby...”
He had been secretly transferring our assets for years, which is why he was bold enough to claim he'd walk away with nothing.
When we married, he was just starting his business, so I had been the primary contributor to the house and car. As for the savings, he had nearly drained them for his own purposes.
He wanted both the prestige and the wealth. Over my dead body.
That very night, I was awakened by a frantic phone call. The hospital needed me to sign some papers.
When I arrived, Colette was there, wearing nothing but a seductive robe hastily covered by a coat, her face a mask of bitterness.
The doctor explained that Anderson had been brought in too late and that further treatment was pointless, advising me to prepare for the worst.
Colette was crying again, begging the doctor to save him, but he just looked at me, awaiting my decision.
What else could I say?
"Then let’s not waste resources. Cease treatment," I said calmly.
"How can you just give up on him without trying to save him? He's your husband!" Colette screamed.
Her shouting drew the attention of others in the hospital, with the doctor reminding her, "Please keep it down."
"And as for you," I replied, unfazed, "You're just a mistress. What gives you the right? I'm his lawful wife. You don't have the right to sign."
Colette watched in venomous silence as I completed Anderson's death certificate and other necessary documents.
Once the paperwork was finished, I immediately arranged for Anderson's body to be taken to the crematorium, with Colette trailing closely behind.
"Aren't you going to mourn? He's about to be cremated," I reminded her.
She glared at me with resentment, then nervously glanced at the staff nearby, before launching into a display of grief.
"Oh, Anderson, what are we going to do now, the baby and I?" she wailed, tears streaming down her face.
The staff looked on with blank expressions, treating her like a professional mourner.
As the time came, I signaled for the procedure to begin.
The staff pulled Colette away to allow them to move Anderson's body.
"You have no right—" she began, pointing a finger at me.
Ready to yell again, I whispered in her ear, "A mistress remains a mistress, with no hope of becoming legitimate."
She glared at me with fury but attempted to flaunt her pregnancy, exaggeratedly resting her hand on her still-flat belly.
"Until it's born, it's not a person, wouldn't you agree..." I let the sentence hang, and she instantly retreated, protective hands cradling her stomach.
When the staff handed me the urn, Colette lunged, scattering some of the ashes in her frantic attempt to seize it.
She collapsed on the ground, clutching at the ashes and crying out, "Anderson, Anderson..."
The staff looked on with complex expressions, reluctant to intervene.
Only when I walked out with a steely expression did they relax. They murmured among themselves, impressed by the mourner's dedication.
Some, however, seemed to understand the truth: Colette was, indeed, just the mistress.
