1 On the day I was diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer, my husband, Marcus, and our seven-year-old son, Toby, were huddled in the emergency room, staring anxiously at Serena. She had cut her finger slicing fruit, requiring a mere two stitches, but the son I had carried for ten months was crying in heartbreak for her. I held my pathology report, standing in the freezing draft of the hallway, waiting in vain for Marcus to ask about my biopsy. Serena whimpered in pain, and Marcus immediately rushed to arrange a VIP private room. Our son shoved me away with irritation: "Mom, are you faking a stomach ache again to get attention?" "Just take a cab home. Don't stand here blocking Aunt Serena's rest!" Marcus caught sight of the paper in my hand and frowned in disgust. "It's just a stomach bug. Was it really necessary to get a prescription?" But that was a surgical consent form for tumor removal, waiting for a family member's signature. Watching them carefully guide Serena between them, a metallic taste rose in my throat. It wasn't that they didn't see my pale, pain-ridden face; they just found me redundant. If so, I would let them have their way. ... Watching the three of them walk toward the elevator, I never ended up shouting that I had cancer. The gripping pain forced me to hunch over as I made my way to the oncology clinic. Dr. Reynolds looked at my pale face, his voice heavy with sympathy: "Mrs. Ward, you need to schedule a total gastrectomy immediately. Otherwise, you might have less than three months to live." "Have your husband sign the papers. For a major surgery like this, the post-op chemo and care will require full-time family support." I looked down at the words "poorly differentiated adenocarcinoma" on my pathology report. "No need, doctor. Please cancel the surgery." The doctor gasped, trying to stop me: "You're still so young. Even if not for yourself, think of your child!" At the mention of "child," a bitter smile cracked on my face. My child had just pushed me out of the room because of a tiny, one-centimeter cut on another woman's finger. I knew exactly what this disease meant. It was genetic; my grandmother and my father both withered away under this torture, taking their last painful breaths in hospital beds. Fighting cancer was a long, draining war of love and money. But I had no love left. In a home where my stomach cramps were mocked as a desperate cry for attention, who would ever care for me on my deathbed? As I walked out of the clinic, a couple of young nurses were gossiping excitedly near the desk. "That woman in the ER is so lucky!" "Just a tiny scratch on her finger, and her husband paid for the penthouse suite upstairs!" "I know, right? He even had his assistant deliver a fifty-thousand-dollar diamond necklace to cheer her up." "Handsome, rich, and so devoted. It's like a romance novel come to life." I stood around the corner, my fingers tightening around the paper. A fifty-thousand-dollar diamond necklace just to soothe the shock of two stitches. Meanwhile, the paper in my hand that decided my life and death didn't even deserve a second glance from him. When I stepped out of the hospital lobby, the rain had started to pour. The pain in my stomach grew sharper. I saw Marcus's Maybach parked near the entrance. Tolerating the agony, I walked over, wanting to slip inside to escape the downpour. But Joe, the driver, stepped in front of the door with an awkward expression: "Mrs. Ward, you can't get in." I froze: "Why?" Joe avoided my gaze, stammering: "Mr. Ward ordered... Miss Serena wants some space, so he told you to find your own way back." A luxury Maybach with a backseat spacious enough for two people to lie down, yet he was worried I would crowd Serena. Joe pulled a black umbrella from the trunk and offered it to me: "Mrs. Ward, please take this and find a cab down the street." I stared at the umbrella, leaving it untouched. By the time I made it back to the suburban villa, my lips were blue from the cold, and my wet clothes clung to my shivering frame. Because of the late-stage cancer, I hadn't been able to eat anything greasy for a long time. My stomach was completely empty, burning with acid. I forced myself to change into dry clothes, then went to the kitchen to cook a small pot of plain oatmeal. Just as I sat down at the table, the front door clicked open. Marcus walked in holding Toby’s hand, followed by Serena, whose hand was neatly wrapped in white gauze. They were laughing and talking. Marcus carried several elegant takeout containers bearing the logo of the city’s most exclusive private kitchen. "Serena, I had them slow-cook their premium bird's nest and bone broth. You need to finish all of it to restore your strength," Marcus said, his voice incredibly tender. Toby tugged at Serena’s hand dutifully: "Aunt Serena, I'll make sure you drink every drop!" But when they walked into the dining area and saw me sitting there with my bowl of plain oatmeal, the smiles vanished from their faces. Marcus frowned at my simple meal, irritation flitting through his eyes. He didn't ask how I had returned in the storm, nor did he ask if I had been caught in the rain. He simply pulled out a chair for Serena, helping her sit down. Then, he carefully opened the containers, gently blowing on a spoonful of hot broth to cool it for her. Just then, my phone buzzed on the table. It was a text from the hospital: [Mrs. Ward, your condition must not be delayed. Please bring a family member to confirm the surgical plan as soon as possible. Do not lose hope!] I stared at the word "hope," then slowly raised my eyes to Marcus. He was leaning over, gently wiping a drop of soup from the corner of Serena’s mouth. His movements were incredibly soft. I gripped my porcelain spoon, testing the waters: "Marcus, my stomach is really hurting. Tomorrow, could you find some time to go to the hospital with me?" Perhaps some foolish, desperate hope still lingered in my heart. Even if it was one in ten thousand, I wanted to know if he would feel a single shred of pain if he knew I was dying. But before I could even finish my sentence, Marcus slammed the spoon against the bowl. "Diana, haven't you played this game enough? If your stomach hurts, go drink some hot water!" "I have to take Serena to get her dressing changed tomorrow. I don't have time for your childish tantrums." Toby glared at me, chiming in: "Mom is the worst! She always lies to get attention!" Looking at their united front, my throat felt as though it were stuffed with wet cotton. I couldn't make a sound. I quietly lowered my head, swallowing a spoonful of tasteless oatmeal. I didn't speak again, because I already had my answer. That night, the temperature plummeted. I lay in bed, feeling the icy chill seeping straight into my bones. Unable to bear the cold, I got up and raised the central heating by two degrees. Just as I sat on the living room sofa to catch my breath, Serena walked out of her room holding an empty glass, complaining loudly: "Gosh, why is it suddenly so hot in here? I can barely breathe." The master bedroom door opened instantly. Marcus walked straight to the thermostat, shut off the heat, and switched on the cool ventilation. Having done that, he turned around and glared at me. "Diana, you're bundled up in a thick coat, so why are you turning up the heat? Don't you know Serena can't stand stuffy rooms?" Toby ran out in his little pajamas, standing beside Marcus like a loyal guard: "Mom did it on purpose! She wants to suffocate Aunt Serena!" My body trembled uncontrollably beneath my heavy coat. Seeing this, Serena immediately adopted a sweet, understanding tone: "Marcus, don't blame Diana. Maybe she really is cold." "I'll be fine. I'll just go back to my room. I don't want to cause trouble between you two." Marcus took her hand, his tone icy: "She’s doing it on purpose. Ignore her." With that, they went back to their respective rooms. Serena didn't forget to cast a smug glance in my direction before she closed her door. The next morning, I took a cab to the hospital alone to sign the non-treatment form. The doctor frowned when he saw me alone: "Mrs. Ward, a major decision like this requires a family member’s signature. Where is your husband?" I turned my head, looking through the glass doors of the lobby. Outside, Marcus and my son were squatting on the ground. Serena stood between them, holding her medical slip. Because her finger was bandaged, Marcus was patiently tying her left sneaker. And my son was clumsily but carefully tying her right shoe. Passersby watched them with admiration, whispering: "Look at how much her husband and son dote on her. She must be the luckiest woman alive." During our four years in college, I had eaten cheap street food with him and lived in damp basements. When I was seven months pregnant, his company went through a severe cash flow crisis. I dragged my heavy belly to client dinners, taking the blows to keep his business afloat, and all he had said back then was a casual "thanks for the hard work." It turned out he wasn't blind, nor was he heartless; he just didn't love me. I withdrew my gaze, my voice calmer than I expected. "I don't have any family left." I signed my name on the waiver form. Then, I picked up two bottles of prescription painkillers and left. After leaving the hospital, I went to Ward Enterprises. The company wouldn't exist today without the effort I had put in alongside Marcus. I was a co-founder and the lead director of our core projects. Over the past few years, to care for Toby, I had gradually stepped back. The moment I walked into the office, several project managers rushed over. "Diana, thank goodness you're here! Marcus hasn't been in for two days, and we can't reach him." "The pricing for the Southside project must be finalized today. We have no idea what to do!" "Yes, Diana, the clients are pushing us. We need your direction!" They looked at me with hope, assuming I was there to save the day. But I simply unzipped my bag, pulled out my resignation letter, and handed it to the HR director who had hurried over. The entire office fell dead silent. The HR director stammered: "Diana... what is this? Does Marcus know?" "He doesn't need to." I scanned the faces of the employees who had fought alongside me for years, having no intention of hiding the truth. "I'm resigning. I have terminal stomach cancer, and there is no cure." "From now on, direct all company matters to Marcus." Without waiting for the gasps and shocked murmurs behind me, I walked out of the building that had consumed ten years of my life. The next day, before dawn, the villa was silent. I placed the divorce papers and the waiver of custody neatly on the center of the coffee table. Finally, I slid my wedding ring off my finger. After eight years of wearing it, a deep indentation remained on my skin, looking like a permanent shackle. I placed the ring right in the middle of the documents. Swallowing my third painkiller of the day, I pushed open the front door and walked into the morning mist without looking back. I took a cab to the airport and bought an expensive ticket to my quiet hometown. I wanted to spend my remaining days closer to where I came from. Sitting in the departure terminal, I pulled out my phone and blocked Marcus and everyone associated with him. "Excuse me, ma'am." Before boarding, a gate agent walked up with a warm smile, handing me a pink carnation. "It's your birthday today. This is a special gift from our airline. Happy birthday, and safe travels." I stared at the pink flower, my throat tightening. Today was my birthday. I had completely forgotten. Marcus had forgotten, Toby had forgotten, and I had forgotten too. Carnations were my late mother’s favorite flowers. I looked down at the blooming petals, and tears splashed onto them without warning. I had been fighting so hard to remain strong. I had imagined, countless times, that if Marcus found out about my cancer, he would hold me and weep, and Toby would hold my hand, begging me not to leave. But the reality was that they simply didn't care. Holding the flower close, I finally broke down in the crowded airport, weeping for my hollow marriage and for my own looming end. ... Meanwhile, back at the villa. Marcus slept in late. When he finally walked down to the living room, he didn't notice the papers on the table. Toby saw the messy sheets of paper blocking his way and shouted toward the kitchen: "Martha, throw these papers away! They're getting in the way of my Legos!" The housekeeper walked over and swept the papers, along with the ring, straight into the trash. A week passed. It was as if I had vanished from the earth, but no one in the household noticed. With my absence, Serena had completely taken over as the lady of the house. On the eighth day, Ward Enterprises faced a sudden tax audit. Because I was listed as a co-founder and legal representative during the early days of registration, several critical tax documents required my signature. Sitting in his office, Marcus picked up his phone with irritation and dialed my number. "The number you have dialed is no longer in service..." Marcus frowned, assuming I had changed my number, and sent a harsh voice note over social media: "Diana, stop throwing tantrums and get back to the office to sign these papers!" The moment he pressed send, a red exclamation mark popped up. Marcus’s face darkened. Only then did he realize that I had been gone for an entire week. My clothes were still in the closet, but I was nowhere to be found. "What is she planning this time?" Furious, Marcus used his connections to track my whereabouts over the past week. Two hours later, his assistant placed the search results on his desk, trembling. "Mr. Ward... the credit cards haven't been used, and there are no hotel bookings." "We checked the security footage. The last place she visited before disappearing... was the city hospital." "The hospital?" Marcus froze, then let out a cold laugh. He immediately drove to the hospital, marching straight into the clinic of my primary oncologist. "Where is Diana? She's faking an illness to dodge her responsibilities. Does she think hiding here will save her from signing the documents?" The elderly doctor was writing a report and was startled by his intrusion. Once the doctor verified Marcus’s identity, his expression turned into one of deep disgust. "You're looking for Diana? She has terminal stomach cancer. She refused surgery and could die at any moment!" "You're her husband, and you had absolutely no idea?"
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "531865", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel