But just then, Dylan collapsed to the ground, crying out in pain.
"Ah, my leg!"
"Arthur, you were right to hit me. I know I'm just an outsider. I shouldn't have tried to take the VP position from you. I don't want it anymore. Please, just stop hurting me."
Kathleen's face twisted with fury.
"You've always bullied him behind my back. Now I see my decision was the right one. If I'd made you VP, you probably would've beaten him to death!"
She knelt down and gently rolled up Dylan's pant leg.
It was barely a scratch.
But she shot me a venomous glare. "If anything happens to Dylan, you're out. And don't even dream about that VP position!"
Watching her rush to his defense, I felt the last trace of warmth drain from my chest. A bitter laugh escaped me.
"If that's how it is, then let's get a divorce."
"Forget the VP title. I don't want your company either."
I turned and walked out of the private room.
But the second the door slammed shut behind me, I heard Mrs. Simmons's voice from inside.
"Kathleen, don't drag me into this. You're the one who wanted to use the ceremony to undercut Arthur so Dylan could lock down the VP spot. You told me exactly what to say."
"He's not actually going to divorce you over this, is he?"
Kathleen scoffed. "He's bluffing. Once he hits rock bottom, he'll come crawling back."
"I bought off every one of his investors and clients a long time ago, just to keep him in line."
The words hit me like a blade between the ribs.
So that was it.
Every investor who'd turned me down. Every client who'd ghosted me. She had gotten to all of them first.
If I hadn't shifted my focus overseas, I'd probably be drowning in debt by now.
At that moment, the stomach I'd wrecked from years of drinking with clients decided to betray me. A sharp, twisting pain seized my gut.
The wail of an ambulance cut through the air outside. Paramedics in white coats rushed through the entrance, stretcher in tow.
Cold sweat beaded at my temples. I reached out a hand. "Excuse me, could you—"
"Please step aside, sir. Someone inside is seriously injured. We need to get to them immediately."
They swept past me and into Kathleen's private room.
Moments later, Dylan emerged on the stretcher.
As they carried him past, one of the paramedics noticed me clutching my stomach, my face drained of color.
"Hey, this guy doesn't look right either—"
Before he could finish, Kathleen cut in sharply.
"He's faking it for sympathy. Ignore him. Get Dylan to the hospital now. If the delay costs him, I'll have every one of you reported."
The paramedic shot me a look of disgust and hurried Dylan into the ambulance.
Just before the doors closed, Dylan turned his head toward me and flashed a smug little smile.
The pain in my stomach kept getting worse.
In the end, a stranger called an ambulance for me.
By the time I reached the hospital, the doctor said if I'd arrived even a few minutes later, I could have suffered another gastric perforation.
After being admitted and taking my medication, the pain finally dulled to something bearable.
That was when Dylan posted a video update.
In the clip, my wife handed him an appointment letter to sign. Then she sat at his bedside with a bowl of homemade soup she'd made herself, spooning it to his lips one careful sip at a time.
The caption read: "Thank you for giving me the best of everything."
I let out a hollow laugh.
And here I'd been, afraid of creating friction with him.
I'd worked myself to the bone, day and night, building my company from nothing into something real, all so I could surprise her one day.
But watching the way she looked at him now, I realized how pathetic I'd been.
She had never once treated me like a husband.
After all, that was how it had always been.
Whatever Dylan wanted, she gave him.
And me? She always called me childish.
Whatever Dylan said, she believed without question.
And me? In her eyes, I was nothing but a useless deadbeat. No ambition. No skills. No worth.
