The "Dying Wife" He Abandoned: Too Late to Regret

My husband, Ethan Vance, glanced at the wrong intake report and thought I was the one dying of late-stage brain cancer.

He instinctively stepped back. "The company's about to go public. Cash flow is tight. For the sake of the business, we should stop treatment."

I clenched the real diagnosis in my coat pocket, the one with Ethan's name on it, and swallowed the impulse to save him.

To force me out with nothing, he cut off my medical payments, transferred 50 million dollars in assets, and even sent our daughter to the Silverpeak Republic as leverage.

A month later, at the Meridian Exchange celebration gala, he wrapped an arm around Bella Carrow, his mistress, and sneered at me. "How are you still alive?"

The next second, blood gushed from his nose, splattering across Bella's white dress.

As he convulsed and collapsed, I curved my lips into a cold smile. "Because the one who's terminally ill is you."

......

Crownport Central Presbyterian Hospital, Department of Neurology.

The corridor was quiet, broken only by the occasional ring of a phone.

The air carried the sharp scent of disinfectant. It felt cold.

I sat on a hard plastic chair in front of the triage desk, holding a freshly printed pathology report.

The edges of the paper were sharp, still warm from the printer.

The attending physician stood before me, hands tucked into the pockets of his white coat.

He didn't sit. His expression was professional, tinged with regret.

"Mrs. Vance," he said, pointing to a line on the report, "the biopsy confirms glioblastoma, grade four. It's the most aggressive type of brain tumor."

The cluster of clinical letters blurred for a moment. My mind went blank.

"Without immediate craniotomy followed by chemo and radiation, survival is unlikely to exceed six months," he continued. "And even if the surgery succeeds, recurrence is inevitable."

The patient was Ethan, my husband.

For the past three months, he had complained about persistent headaches and blurred vision.

Yesterday, he collapsed during a corporate roadshow and was rushed to the ER. I insisted on a full examination.

The elevator doors at the end of the corridor slid open.

Quick footsteps echoed toward us.

Ethan walked in. He wore a dark gray tailored suit, his tie slightly crooked, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

He had just come from a pre-IPO meeting.

His phone vibrated nonstop in his hand, the screen lit up with a flood of unread emails.

He strode to the triage desk without looking at me and asked the nurse, "Are the results out?"

His tone was sharp, impatient.

Startled by his presence, the nurse hurriedly pulled a brown envelope from a stack of files and handed it over.

That was when I noticed the label.

The VIP intake system had just malfunctioned. In the patient field of the preliminary report, the name printed clearly read—Chloe Vance.

My name.

I parted my lips, about to explain.

Ethan had already snatched the envelope from her hand.

Just before that, I instinctively slipped the real report, the one that read Ethan Vance, into my coat pocket.

He pulled out the diagnosis and scanned it quickly.

In that instant, I saw his pupils constrict sharply.

It was the reflex of a man staring straight into disaster.

I stood up. Instinctively, I reached for his hand.

I wanted to tell him not to be afraid, that the name on the report was wrong.

The one who was sick was him. We needed to call the doctors immediately. No matter how many dollars it cost, we would pay.

But Ethan stepped back half a pace.

The movement was subtle, yet unmistakably firm.

He withdrew the hand that had been about to rest on my shoulder and instead lifted his wrist to straighten his cuff.

The panic and agitation on his face vanished within two seconds.

In their place came pure calculation, the same cold composure I had seen when he negotiated mergers and acquisitions.

He was doing the math.

As the CEO of a tech company preparing to list on the Meridian Exchange, his mind was running at full speed.

He was weighing the financial risk of a terminally ill wife, how astronomical medical bills might strain cash flow, and whether the liquidation of my family trust could trigger instability in shareholder equity.

Those few seconds of silence felt like an entire century.

"Chloe," he said quietly, his voice eerily calm, "the company is in its Quiet Period. Any large capital movement will draw scrutiny from regulators."

My hand froze midair.

Ethan avoided my gaze and looked toward the wall at the end of the corridor.

"I've read about this disease. It's a bottomless pit. Even if we pour in millions of dollars, we'll lose everything in the end. For the bigger picture, for the hundreds of employees at Vance Tech... you need to be rational."

Tears still clung to my lashes.

The words "You're the one who's sick" reached the edge of my lips, and I forced them back down.

I looked at the man I had shared a bed with for three years.

Just yesterday, he had told me I was his motivation, that once the company went public, he would take me around the world.

Now, in the face of life and death, I had become a liability he was eager to write off.

"Rational?" I asked softly.

"Yes." Ethan finally looked at me. There was no warmth in his eyes. "I'll arrange the best hospice care for you. But surgery... the doctor said the recurrence rate is one hundred percent. We have to face reality."

He didn't even ask whether there was a miracle.

He had already sentenced me to death.

My hand, buried in my coat pocket, curled into a tight fist.

The real report had been crushed into a wrinkled ball, its sharp edges biting into my palm.

The sting kept me painfully clearheaded.

In his heart, my life was worth less than his IPO valuation.

"Fine." I wiped the tears from my face, my voice steady. "I'll do as you say, Ethan."

He seemed surprised by how quickly I agreed and paused for a moment. Then he nodded, the tension leaving his shoulders.

"I'll wait in the car. Come down when you're ready. I have a conference call."

With that, he turned and walked toward the elevator.

His steps were brisk. He didn't look back once.

I stood alone in the empty corridor and watched his figure disappear behind the closing elevator doors.

Slowly, I smoothed out the crumpled report from my pocket and stared at the name printed on it—Ethan Vance. Then I tore it into pieces and dropped them into the medical waste bin beside me.

Since he had chosen profit over me, I would make sure he got exactly what he wanted.