While my wife, Hathaway, was popping champagne with her male best friend at her company, I was dragging my suitcase out the door, leaving behind a signed divorce agreement. Before I left, I didn’t forget to post on Twitter: "I'm leaving. The space is all yours now." Half an hour later, my phone rang. It was her. "James, have you had enough of your little tantrums?!" I couldn't help but sneer. I don't want you anymore, Hathaway. I don't care who you sleep with. And yet, suddenly, she was the one panicking. On my birthday, I drove Hathaway to work. Before she got out of the car, I asked her, "It's my birthday today. Come home early. I have something important to tell you." She stayed silent for a long time before finally nodding. Hathaway and I had been married for three years. She was a high-powered corporate executive at a publicly traded company. I was a freelance designer. I took private commissions and made a decent living, but compared to Hathaway, it was pennies. As a man, most would feel insecure having a wife who made so much more. But I never did. I had known Hathaway since I was sixteen. It was love at first sight. She was three years older than me. When I was a freshman in high school, she returned as an outstanding alumna to give a speech. Her elegant, sharp profile on that stage became branded into my memory. After her speech, I wanted to take a picture with her, but the crowd was too thick. I couldn't get close. In a fit of desperation, I yelled at the top of my lungs, "Hey, Blue Smurf!" She paused, looking back with a smile. I clicked the shutter, capturing that exact moment. I followed her footsteps all the way to Princeton, becoming her junior. It took me three years of chasing her just to get her to agree to date me. If her family hadn't been pressuring her to get married back then, I would have never stood a chance. Only after we got married did I realize—some hearts are just made of stone. You can never warm them up. Today was my birthday. I had specially ordered a cake and cooked a full dinner, waiting for her to come home. But I waited from six in the evening until nine, and there was no sign of her. I couldn't help but call her, but it went straight to voicemail. Just as I was about to give up, Harry sent me a video. In the video, Hathaway was laughing, her arm wrapped tightly around his neck. Her colleagues were cheering around them, popping expensive champagne. "James, Hathaway just locked down the massive NICE project. We're celebrating. Don't be a party pooper!" Harry's text shattered the very last piece of hope in my heart. I should have known. Hathaway always put me last. I didn't reply. I just reheated the food, ate alone, lit the single candle, and blew it out. I made a wish. At sixteen, my wish was to spend the rest of my life with Hathaway. At twenty-six, my wish was to let her go, and finally free myself. I had noticed the strange dynamic between Hathaway and Harry a year ago. He was her "male best friend." Whenever Hathaway was stressed or tired, Harry was always her first phone call. Whenever she couldn't crack a tough business case, Harry would step in and save the day. At first, I thought he was just her trusted colleague. But then I noticed the way Harry looked at her. It wasn't innocent. Their physical touch had crossed the line of normal friendship long ago. And then, I started receiving anonymous texts. My phone was flooded with intimate photos of the two of them. The first time it happened, my heart raced with panic. I confronted Hathaway, but she just looked at me with pure annoyance. "James, it’s just a hug. We are friends. Stop acting so dramatic." I begged her to keep her distance. I even tried to make her jealous by hugging someone else in front of her. But Hathaway saw right through me. She gave me the silent treatment for a whole week. She used her actions to tell me: threats don't work on her. After that, I stopped fighting. I just made a silent vow to myself: once I received one hundred photos, I would leave. I hadn't reached one hundred yet, but I couldn't take it anymore. Each photo felt like a sharp blade, carving into my flesh until I was bleeding out. By midnight, Hathaway still hadn't come home. My birthday was officially over. The things I wanted to tell her didn't matter anymore. I packed my bags, left the divorce papers on the kitchen island, and walked away without looking back. Some things, if you don't do them now, you never will. The next morning, I took the earliest flight to New York. Aside from escaping, I had one vital thing to do.
"Mr. James, the neurosurgeons in New York are the best in the country. If you go there, you might stand a chance." That was my doctor's advice. I had a brain tumor. Lately, I had been passing out frequently. Sometimes, my vision would go completely black. The doctor said the tumor was pressing against my optic nerve, and I would eventually go blind. I didn't want to die so young, but the disease was progressing faster than expected. I just wanted to buy myself a little more time. As for Hathaway... I was done trying. Right after I landed, Hathaway’s call came through. "James, what is the meaning of this? What kind of game are you playing?!" Her voice was raspy, dripping with anger. I looked up at the clear blue sky. It was a beautiful day, and surprisingly, my chest felt lighter. "Hathaway, yesterday was my birthday." The line went dead silent for a second. Then, she muttered, "I'm sorry. I..." "I know. You landed the NICE account. Congratulations." My voice was incredibly calm, even to my own ears. "Just sign the papers. I'll be back in a month to finalize it." To my surprise, Hathaway didn't snap. Instead, she said coldly, "Since you're in a bad mood, go take a vacation. But divorce is out of the question!" "I—" Before I could finish, she hung up on me. I let out a bitter laugh. A second later, a notification popped up on my phone. She had wired a massive amount of money to my account—more than enough for me to live like a king for a month. What a waste. I didn't have the time to spend it. I went straight to the hospital, checked in, and then took a cab to our old university campus. This was my alma mater. I had followed Hathaway all the way to Princeton and spent four years here. Looking back, it felt like it all happened yesterday. Walking down the familiar tree-lined path, I remembered how I used to stage "accidental" run-ins with her here. Every time, Hathaway would smile faintly and say, "James, that's the third time we've run into each other today. Is there something you want to tell me?" My face would turn bright red. After a long pause, I'd stammer, "Do... do you want to eat steak? I can cook for you!" Hathaway, who was used to expensive flowers and luxury gifts, never expected a boy to offer her a home-cooked meal. One Tomahawk steak was all it took to win her over. Later, when we finally became official, it was also over a dinner table. She wiped her mouth, looked at me, and said, "Want to give us a try?" Suddenly, a sharp, excruciating pain shot through my head. I dropped to my knees on the gravel path! The pain radiated from the back of my skull, and my vision went pitch black. I hurriedly fumbled in my pocket, swallowed two pills, and waited a long time before the darkness receded. Just then, my phone buzzed. It was a text from that same anonymous number. "You think running away will change anything? James, just give up." This was the first time the sender had texted me actual words instead of just photos. It seemed he was getting desperate too. I let out a soft laugh. I don't care anymore. I blocked the number, finished my walk around the campus, said my silent goodbyes, and checked into the hospital. For the treatment, they shaved my head. Staring at the pale, sickly man with a bald head in the mirror, a wave of sadness washed over me. But the anonymous harasser wouldn't stop. He used another number to text me, and before I could block it, he sent a video. It was Hathaway and Harry at a dimly lit lounge. Under the warm lights, they were sitting incredibly close, their fingers intertwined. Their smiles pierced my eyes like hot needles. Hathaway, so this is what you meant by letting me "clear my head." You just wanted me out of the way so you could have your fun. I took a deep breath. A text popped up: "Just walk away. You don't deserve her." Hilarious. I had already walked away, but Hathaway was the one refusing to let go. Of course. She was a high-level corporate executive. If a nasty cheating scandal broke out, her career would be ruined. Poor guy. This anonymous sender clearly hadn't thought about that. Or maybe he had, but he just didn't care. Or maybe he thought I would quietly swallow my pride and handle it privately, leaving them to act without consequences. What a clown. I didn't reply and blocked this number too.
When Hathaway called me again, I had just charged over a hundred thousand dollars to her credit card. The surgery and prep fees at a top New York hospital were astronomical. The neurosurgeon looked at me, giving me a warm smile. "Don't be nervous, James. We'll get through this together." My throat tightened, and I almost cried. From Miami to New York, I had been completely alone. When the hospital staff realized I had checked in with no family, their eyes filled with pity. They had been taking extra care of me. I never expected that in a strange city, total strangers would show me more warmth than my own wife. And that was when Hathaway's call came in. "James, how are you doing over there? You spent a fortune. I assume your mood has improved?" Her tone was icy. Even through the speaker, I could feel her irritation. "What? Does the money hurt your feelings?" "Hardly." Hathaway paused for a moment before asking, "When are you coming back? My parents keep asking where you went." It had been a week. I had finished my bucket list and checked into the hospital today. I obviously wasn't going back. Just then, a nurse’s voice echoed in the room. "Bed 28, time for your blood draw!" "Are you in a hospital?" Hathaway's sharp question made me chuckle. It proved she hadn't been home in days. If she had set foot in our house, she would have seen my diagnosis reports sitting right there on the coffee table. "I wasn't feeling well, so I came in for a checkup. Hathaway, have you... not been home?" I waited for her excuse. If she gave me even a semi-plausible lie, I would have let it go. She went silent for a few seconds before saying, "I've been busy." "Staying at the office, or staying with Harry?" It wasn't a question. It was a fact. Because at that very moment, my phone had received a few more photos from a new number. The timestamp was last night. Hathaway was fast asleep, wrapped in the arms of another man. They looked peaceful, curled up together like a perfect, happy couple. Looking at it, I let out a soft scoff. "Just sign the divorce papers. Think of that hundred thousand dollars as my share of the asset division." Hathaway lost her temper. "Don't you dare! James, what the hell is wrong with you?!" "I told you a thousand times, Harry is just a friend! You spend all your time cooped up in that house. It's rotting your brain!" "I'm warning you, cut this out. I've had enough!" I didn't feel angry at all. "Hathaway, if I died one day, would you actually be sad?" "No! James, get back here right now so we can talk." I sighed. Why was getting a divorce so exhausting? Just as I was about to hang up, Harry's voice drifted through her end of the line. "Hathaway, is he accusing us again? Ugh." "I knew I shouldn't have come back. I told you, James is just incredibly petty." "Just ignore him. He's had it too easy for too long!" I didn't listen to the rest. I hung up. A dull, throbbing pain exploded in my head. Fighting the intense vertigo, I opened my Instagram and posted a single status: "I'm leaving. The space is all yours now." I tagged both Hathaway and Harry. Since they thought I was a petty, dramatic husband, I might as well act like one. Hathaway had just secured the NICE project. My post immediately caused a PR nightmare, halting the collaboration between the two companies. While waiting for my final pre-op results, I went down to the hospital's rooftop garden. I took a few photos of myself under the sun and posted them on Ins. "The sun is warm. The view is beautiful here." A minute later, Hathaway called back, screaming. "James, you are absolutely disgusting!" "You're trying to ruin me, aren't you?!" "Why don't you just die!" Hearing her venomous words through the phone, my mind went blank. I felt something inside my chest shatter into a million pieces. Right after that, my vision went dark. I heard nurses shouting for a doctor in the background, and the last thing I heard was Hathaway's irritated voice on the phone: "James, what kind of act are you putting on now?!"
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "NovelMaster" app ? search for "445479", and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster