Chapter 1

Half a year ago, Sean Quinton had forced me to head abroad with him to the country where we'd registered our marriage. Our ship had veered off course and sunk in an uncharted area. We'd both choked on large amounts of contaminated water, leading to lung infections.

Half a year later, we both lay in hospital beds and were on the brink of death. The uncharted area had turned out to be a wastewater zone—no one else had ever been there, so no one else had died because of this so-called lung infection.

Since the doctors had no previous cases to refer to, they couldn't propose any treatment plans for us, no matter how wealthy Sean was.

I'd shaved my head because of chemotherapy. When I returned after completing a session, Sean pointed at me, his eyes bloodshot.

"She can be used as a sample, can't she? You guys can conduct research on her once she's dead! She has no money, so she can't pay for treatment. Our hospital doesn't treat the poor! Have you guys forgotten that?"

It was true that I didn't have any money. When finalizing the divorce, Sean had fabricated all sorts of evidence to frame me for adultery. He'd made me leave the marriage without a penny to my name, and I'd even lost the wedding gifts my parents had given me.

The doctor scratched his head helplessly. He didn't like Sean's selfishness but also didn't dare raise his voice at the latter, who was a shareholder of the hospital.

Still, he said, "Ms. Court has paid for a month's worth of chemotherapy, Mr. Quinton. We can't abandon her."

Sean stared at me, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Where did that money come from? I froze all your cards! Did you ask another man for it? Did you pimp yourself out?"

I sneered and strode to the VIP ward next door. The way Sean saw it, I'd long since become a woman who couldn't do anything except suck his blood and take his money. To think we'd been madly in love with each other in the past.

I'd spent all my savings and sold everything I owned to pool enough money for a month's worth of treatments. I only had one goal—I wanted to drag this out for as long as possible.

The later I died, the less time the doctors would have to conduct research on my body. That would also reduce Sean's chances of survival. I swore I wouldn't save him again.

…

A nurse came to check on me as usual. Tears streaked down her face as she said, "You're still so young, Elisa. How can you… Your ex-husband really is a piece of trash!"

I smiled and handed her a tissue. She was new here and had yet to learn to conceal her emotions. I already knew the end was coming.

I tried to ignore Sean's shouts and clamoring in the ward next door as I packed my medication into a small bag. "Could you help me sort out the discharge procedure? I want to head home to check on things."

…

In the end, I died in my and Sean's marital home due to carbon monoxide poisoning.

Six months ago, I'd still cooked for him daily in that kitchen. I'd stopped because there'd been an issue with the gas.

I'd asked Sean to get someone to fix it, but what had he been doing then? If my memory served me right, he'd dispatched everyone in his company to coax his assistant because she'd threatened to resign after getting upset over something.

Six months had passed since then, but the gas still hadn't been fixed. Well, it was yet another thing that could be pinned on him. This was indirect murder.

Perhaps he'd long since forgotten that I'd asked him to fix the gas.

It was so quiet at home that I could hear the gas hissing as it leaked from the pipe. It was like a countdown to my death.

I called Sean. As expected, he rejected my call. Soon, however, his assistant called me back.

"Hi, Elisa. Since you and Mr. Quinton have already divorced, you should schedule an appointment through me before contacting him. Stop disturbing him while he's resting."

I smiled self-deprecatingly before coughing from the smell of the gas.

Sean's assistant continued, "There's no point acting weak before me, Elisa. I'm too busy caring for Mr. Quinton every day to bother about you!"

I couldn't stop coughing. My throat felt so constricted that I couldn't make a sound. Still, I forced out, "As he'd hoped, I'm dying. Let me talk to him."