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.