Chapter 3

Right after breakfast, Ethan suddenly groaned and grabbed his head, collapsing onto his knees.

His face contorted in sheer, unadulterated agony.

Then, with a heavy thud, he fell flat on the floor, unconscious. Within seconds, he began to vomit and convulse violently.

These were the classic, undeniable signs of a massive aneurysm rupture.

His family had a history of cardiovascular disease, which was why I used to force him to get detailed annual checkups.

But Ethan, arrogant and lazy, never took his health seriously, thinking he was young and invincible.

Who knew karma would strike this quickly?

I stepped forward to check on him.

I thought I hated him to his core, but staring at him hovering on the edge of life and death, I felt a brief, instinctive hesitation.

This was a human life, after all.

But as I gripped my phone, debating whether to dial 911, my in-laws reacted.

They violently shoved me aside, snatched my phone, and slammed it onto the hardwood floor, shattering the screen. "You worthless jinx! My son doesn't need your damn ambulance! He’s just dizzy!" Martha shrieked.

"Get the hell out of the way! Don't bring your bad luck near my son!" Arthur roared.

I slowly stood up, brushing myself off, a calm wash of realization settling over me.

They actually thought Ethan was executing the "fake death" plan early. They were just playing their parts, trying to keep me from getting medical help so they could claim he "died" at home.

I looked at Ethan, who was shivering and choking on his own vomit.

I let out a slow, quiet sigh.

Well, Ethan, my love. It’s not that I didn’t try to save you. Your parents just wouldn't let me.

Seeing me stare at Ethan, my in-laws thought I was still trying to interfere. They grabbed two empty wine bottles from the counter, standing like rabid dogs in front of Ethan’s twitching body. "Get out! My son is young and healthy. He just needs to rest!"

"Stop acting smart! He doesn't need your help!"

I took a step back, positioning myself perfectly so the hidden camera could record their faces and actions in high definition.

If we’re going to put on a show, let’s make it an Oscar-worthy performance.

I frantically picked up my broken phone, pulled up the forged diagnosis report Ethan had shown me yesterday, and began to sob hysterically. "Mom! Dad! Ethan told me yesterday he has a brain aneurysm! His brain is bleeding right now! He’s in critical condition! We have to call 911 right now!"

Hearing the word "hospital," my in-laws panicked. Arthur raised his bottle threateningly. "Shut up! What aneurysm? You do nothing but curse my son!"

"We’re staying right here! Nobody is calling anyone!" Martha yelled.

I wept, shoving the broken phone toward them. "Mom, why won't you believe me? Look at his report! He’s really sick! I’m not making this up!"

"If we don't call an ambulance, what do we do? We can't carry him by ourselves! How are we going to get him to a hospital?"

As I put on the performance of a lifetime—the desperate, grieving wife—my sharp eyes caught something.

Ethan’s eyelids fluttered. He was regaining a tiny sliver of consciousness.

His mouth opened and closed, desperately trying to make a sound.

But his parents were too busy screaming at me to notice him.

Realizing his voice was too weak, Ethan’s trembling hand slowly reached toward the edge of the coffee table, trying to knock over a cup to get their attention.

A cold sweat broke out on my neck.

Oh, no, you don't. If they realize you’re actually dying, they’ll call 911, and my peaceful future is ruined.

In a split second, I lunged forward, grabbing Martha’s arm. "Mom, give me a phone! We can't wait! No matter what you say, I’m calling for help!"

Martha, startled by my sudden movement, instinctively shoved me away with all her might.

I staggered backward, lost my balance, and landed my entire weight—butt first—straight onto Ethan’s face.