His Desperate Plea

I asked my husband for a divorce during the most difficult year of his life. Everyone condemned me, calling me heartless, but I still forced him to sign the divorce papers.

Later, he overcame his struggles and rose to become a powerful CEO. I avoided him for two years, believing I’d never cross paths with him again—until he caught me at my most wretched.

His eyes brimmed with hatred as he stared at me. In front of everyone, he humiliated me and relentlessly forced me to down a bottle of vodka.

I vomited uncontrollably, blood gushing from my mouth in thick streams.

He mocked me, telling me it was the retribution I deserved for betraying him.

I didn’t argue. I let him torment me. After all, I was already dying. If that made him content, so be it.

"You’ve been chasing this contract for a month now, haven’t you? Finish this drink, and I’ll sign it immediately."

I stared at the tall glass, brimming with vodka to the point of overflowing. Ignoring the cramps twisting through my stomach, I forced a smile toward Angela Clarke.

With trembling fingers, I picked up the glass from the table. Under everyone’s watchful eyes, I downed the liquor in a quick gulp.

The moment it hit my stomach, a fiery sting spread through me, and I couldn’t stop the involuntary shudder that wracked my body.

Last week, during chemotherapy, the doctor insisted I stay in the hospital. She warned me that if I ignored her advice, given how quickly my condition was deteriorating, I could die at any moment.

I tore out every piece of equipment attached to me and left the hospital amidst the doctor’s hysterical shouts.

This was the last deal I needed to close. Once this was signed, I would have no regrets left.

Clenching my fists and grinding my teeth, I pulled the contract from my briefcase, flipped to the signature page, and respectfully placed it before Angela.

I uncapped the pen and offered it to her. “Here you go.”

Angela took the pen from my hand and frowned as she carefully flipped through the contract, reading it front to back more than once.

I hesitated as I watched her, debating whether to explain myself. But before I could speak, Angela dropped the contract onto the floor.

I forced a smile then bent down to pick it up. As I reached for the document, she pressed her stiletto heel down on it.

She tilted her head slightly, a smug expression playing across her face.

“Matthew,” she called out.

At her words, my grip on the corner of the contract tightened, and my body froze. I nearly lost my balance.

I glanced toward the door. A man stood there, his expression dark as he walked toward me.

He stopped beside me, looking down with an air of dominance. His lips parted, and in a voice both cold and faintly scornful, he said, “Giselle Stark, it really is you.

“So, it seems