And all of this—my ruined career, my trembling hands—was just to keep me from returning to medicine, to force me into submission, all for Faye, who was also a doctor.
Tristan led me into his office with the same gentle care he had always shown. He guided me to the sofa, his voice warm and indulgent.
"Sit here, wife. Rest a bit."
Moments later, an assistant arrived with a platter of my favorite fruits and snacks. Tristan placed his laptop in front of me, queuing up my favorite TV series. Finally, he reached out and rubbed my head affectionately.
"I still have some work to finish. Be good and wait for me here, okay? Once I’m done, I’ll take you out for seafood."
His tone was soft, his gaze filled with love—so convincing, so practiced.
He turned away, settling into his chair, but barely a minute had passed when a message popped up on my screen.
"Brother, my heart is getting worse. Am I dying soon? When will you give me my sister-in-law’s umbilical cord blood?"
My breath hitched.
He had forgotten to log out of Facebook on his laptop, syncing his messages in real time.
And then, right before my eyes, he responded.
"Soon. In five days, I’ll arrange a car accident. She’ll believe the child died in the crash. Then, we’ll use the umbilical cord blood to treat you. My Faye will be fine."
A car accident.
He had planned it all.
The joy on his face when he learned about my pregnancy, the way he had cradled me as if I were his most precious treasure—none of it was real. He wasn’t excited to become a father. He was just thrilled that he could finally save Faye.
Perhaps sensing my gaze, he suddenly turned to me and flashed a reassuring smile.
"Wife, just a little longer. I’ll finish up soon, and then we’ll go have that seafood dinner you love."
His eyes were filled with sincerity, his tone dripping with affection, as if he weren’t plotting my death just moments ago.
I clenched my hands beneath the blanket, forcing down the rage and nausea clawing at my throat. My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I scrolled through the rest of his chat with Faye.
And what I saw made my blood turn to ice.
"Tristan, I got my period again. My underwear is dirty. Come wash it for me."
"Tristan, my sister-in-law won’t be mad that we talk every day, right? We’re just siblings. If she gets jealous of her sister, she’s too petty."
"Tristan, Wesley kept me up all night again. He’s been clinging to me lately, but I still miss the days with you. My brother is better than Wesley."
"Brother, why are you pretending to be so serious? No one knows we’re not really related by blood. Didn’t you do enough to confront me when we were in love?"
They chatted almost every day. And every time Tristan told me he was out socializing, he was actually on his way to see Faye.
But that wasn’t the only betrayal I uncovered.
I made another discovery—one that shattered the last remnants of trust I had left.
The notebook I had used to record my years of medical knowledge—the one containing unique theories and findings that could revolutionize medicine—was missing. That notebook had been my life's work, a collection of medical truths I had painstakingly practiced and refined. If I had applied for a patent, it would have been worth hundreds of billions.
It disappeared on the third day after I married into the Sinclair Family.
I searched the entire estate, desperate to find it, but it was nowhere to be seen. Tristan had told me it must have been misplaced during the move. At the time, I believed him.
I never expected that he had given it to Faye.
I gripped my phone tightly, my heart numb with disappointment. Without hesitation, I sent a message to a contact I had prepared long ago.
"Draft a divorce agreement for me."
Then, with a deep breath, I booked a flight. Three days from now, I would leave—disappearing to the other side of the world.
That evening, we had dinner at a high-end restaurant, a place we had dined at countless times before. Tristan played his usual role—the doting husband. He poured water for me, peeled shrimp with practiced ease, and even wiped the corners of my mouth with a napkin. He was so attentive, so consumed with caring for me, that he barely touched his own food.
In the past, this devotion had made my heart ache for him. After a long day of work, he would still focus all his energy on me, doing everything he could to make me comfortable. Especially after I became pregnant, it was as if my only responsibility was to exist—he took care of the rest.
I used to think it was love.
But now, I know better.
Everything he did—every tender gesture, every whispered promise—was never about me. It was about my child.
Because to him, I was nothing more than a vessel.
And my child’s umbilical cord blood was the only thing that truly mattered.
