Chapter 3

The next morning, Brandon was officially admitted to the hospital for chemotherapy.

I went to work as usual.

Throughout the entire morning, Martha called me twenty times on SnapChat and my cell.

I kept my phone on silent, calmly finishing my quarterly spreadsheets.

After clocking out, I stopped by a convenience store, bought the cheapest bouquet of white carnations, and took the bus to the city medical center.

Oncology ward, twelfth floor. The air was thick with the sharp smell of bleach and antiseptic.

I stopped in front of Room 3. The door was slightly ajar.

Brandon was propped up in bed, an IV line taped to the back of his hand.

Sitting right beside him in a delicate white dress was Nicole.

She held a thermos, gently blowing on a spoonful of chicken broth before feeding it to Brandon.

Her eyes were rimmed with red, tears trembling on her lashes.

Brandon looked at her with pure adoration, as if her presence alone erased his terminal pain.

What a touching scene of eternal romance.

I pushed the door open.

The metal hinges screeched loudly.

Both of them stiffened instantly.

Nicole sprang to her feet, nervously smoothing down her dress.

"Mrs. Miller... please don't misunderstand. I heard Brandon was sick, so I just brought over some homemade soup," she said in a fragile, quivering voice, tears ready to spill.

Brandon immediately jumped to her defense, glaring at me. "I asked her to come. Throw your tantrums at home, Chloe, don't bring your crazy into the hospital."

I ignored him completely. Walking straight over to the nightstand, I tossed the white flowers on top, followed by a printed hospital billing notice.

"I don't misunderstand at all. In fact, I should thank you, Nicole."

"Brandon's first round of targeted immunotherapy is ready. The bill is fifty thousand dollars. I simply don't have that kind of cash."

I pulled out my phone, brought up my PayPal QR code, and held it out to her.

"Since true love is priceless and chicken broth doesn't cure stomach cancer, why don't you cover his medical bills? PayPal or Apple Pay?"

Patients and families in the neighboring beds poked their heads around the curtains to watch the drama unfold.

Nicole's face drained of all color.

She instinctively took a step back, her eyes darting around. "That... that's between husband and wife. I'm just an old friend. Where would I get that kind of money?"

"An old friend who took his $10,000 for spa trips and jewelry? An old friend who takes thousands in pocket money from him every month?"

I took a step closer, towering over her. "When you're spending his cash, you're soulmates. When the hospital bill arrives, you're suddenly just an old friend?"

"Shut up!" Brandon yelled, straining to sit upright. The violent movement yanked his IV line, and he groaned in agony.

"Brandon, I... I have to run the shop! I'm leaving!" Unable to face the truth, Nicole snatched her purse and bolted out the door.

"Nicole! Wait!" Brandon reached out desperately.

The sudden strain triggered violent chemo side effects.

A wave of agonizing spasms hit his stomach. He slumped over the edge of the bed and began vomiting uncontrollably.

Bile mixed with the chicken soup splattered all over the linoleum floor.

A pungent, sour stench filled the room.

I put my phone away and watched from two paces back, completely detached.

Martha walked in with a pitcher of hot water. Seeing the mess, she dropped the pitcher, screaming as she lunged toward the bed.

"You wicked monster! Are you blind?! Help him clean up!"

"It's chicken soup made with true love. Even the vomit must smell sweet to you. Clean it up yourself."

Leaving those words behind, I turned and walked out.

The fallout happened faster than I anticipated.

By the evening of the third day, Martha called, claiming Brandon's condition had taken a turn for the worse and demanding I come to the hospital immediately.

The moment I stepped out of the elevator, Martha and Brandon's older brother, Mark, ambushed me in the corridor.

Martha gripped several legal forms in her hand and slammed them onto the metal armrest of the bench.

"Chloe, the hospital issued a final ultimatum! If we don't pay a $15,000 deposit by tomorrow morning, they're cutting off his meds!"

"Brandon is your husband! Sign this power of attorney right now so we can put the condo on the market!"

The condo was bought before our marriage using a $30,000 down payment my parents gave me. After we got married, I added Brandon's name to the deed to keep peace in the family. Now, they wanted to mortgage or dump it behind my back to a shady cash buyer.

I pushed the papers aside, reached into my bag, and threw a stapled stack of financial records right into their chests.

"You want to sell the condo? Sure. But let's settle this account first."

Mark frowned and picked up the papers. Martha leaned in to look.

It was a complete transaction history of Brandon's primary accounts over the last two years.

I had spent the entire afternoon pulling it through my connections at the bank.

Fifty thousand dollars in liquid savings.

Not a single dollar had gone into mutual funds or savings.

It had all been broken down and wired in six separate transactions into a business account registered as "Petal Moments Floral LLC."

"If you have this much free time, look up who owns that flower shop," I said coldly.

"Your son didn't just use marital assets to fund his mistress. He took our entire life savings to bankroll her business."

Mark's face went rigid. He threw the papers onto the bench, dead silent.

Martha squinted at the numbers, her expression flickering with guilt.

For barely two seconds.

The next instant, she snatched the papers and hurled them directly into my face.

"So what?!" she shrieked, spitting all over my face.

"The money was earned by my son! He can spend it on whoever he damn well pleases! What's wrong with a man having a muse on the side? It just proves my boy is capable!"

She lunged forward, grabbing my collar with both hands.

"He's dying right now! What is a damn condo compared to his life?!"

"Are you going to stand there and watch him die?! That apartment should belong to the Miller family anyway!"

"If my son hadn't agreed to marry you, a nobody like you wouldn't even have survived in New York!"

She was losing her mind, her sharp nails scraping toward my cheek.

Mark stood by, watching without uttering a word.

Down the hall, nurses paused their rounds, hesitating whether to call security.

I wiped the faint bead of blood from my scratched cheek with the back of my hand.

Then, I pulled a fresh document from my purse and laid it flat on the bench.

"I'm not saving him. Let him die."

Martha's hands froze in midair.

I looked straight into her crazed eyes.

"This is the divorce petition. The apartment stays mine. The car will be sold to cover his outstanding debts."

"And Brandon leaves with absolutely nothing."