My Billionaire Wife’s Deadly Affair

When my girlfriend was the poorest, I broke up with her.

Later, when she had it all—fame, fortune, power—she still married me, no matter the cost.

Everyone said I was the one man she could never let go of. The one she held like something sacred in her hands.

Until the night she started bringing home different men, one after another—dragging my name through the mud, turning me into the punchline of every party in high society.

And I? I just stayed in the study. Silent. Out of sight. Never once interrupting her games.

Then one night, something in her snapped. She shoved me up against the wall, kissed me like a storm, and whispered with a trembling voice,

"Aren't you even a little jealous?"

She had no idea.

My medical report said: terminal stomach cancer.

While she spiraled in her madness, I was quietly counting how many days I had left.

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On our third wedding anniversary, Emily Johnson walked through our front door with a boy named Ethan Miller.

He couldn't have been more than twenty. Clear eyes, charming grin, a little canine tooth when he smiled—exactly Emily's type.

In six months, he'd become her favorite.

Even my closest friend pulled me aside, his voice tight with concern:

"Lucas, this one's different. You should see how she looks at him..."

On the morning of my birthday, I threw up half a basin of blood in the bathroom.

The doctor handed me the test results with a flat tone:

"If you're lucky, you'll make it until the cherry blossoms bloom next year."

My fingers turned white around the paper.

It wasn't death that scared me. It was dying in pain—burned alive from the inside out by chemotherapy.

He mentioned an imported drug that might help. The price? Half a year's salary for a single dose.

That afternoon, I went to Johnson Group to find Emily.

I ran into Ethan outside her office.

He was dressed in a custom suit, perfectly groomed, handing out coffee like he owned the place. When he saw me, he let out a dramatic gasp and covered his mouth.

"Oh my God. So you're the husband Emily keeps hidden away? You look like a walking corpse."

I caught my reflection in the glass—messy hair, pale skin, an old sweater that hung off my shoulders.

He wasn't wrong. I looked awful.

I was dying.

A secretary quickly yanked him aside.

"Shut up! That's Mr. Thompson. He used to be the man on Wall Street."

She lowered her voice.

"Emily still keeps his college photo in her desk drawer."

Ethan's smirk faltered, but he quickly recovered.

"So what? I'm the one in her bed now."

Then he strolled into the break room like he'd just won a war, coffee cup in hand, leaning against the doorway with that smug little grin.

He set the cup in front of me, letting it splash onto the desk.

"Mr. Thompson, is Emily still in her meeting?"

He adjusted his cuffs, flashing the limited-edition watch she'd bought him.

"Last week, I caught a cold. She canceled a board meeting just to stay home and take care of me."

Sunlight poured through the windows, making me squint. He looked so young. Fresh suit, expensive tie clip—one of Emily's favorites.

The room went quiet. Interns glanced over and started whispering.

"I heard Ethan spent the night in Emily's office..."

I wiped the coffee spill slowly, deliberately.

Three months ago, at her birthday party, she'd introduced him as her new executive assistant—her arm looped tightly through his.

That's when I noticed it. A tiny mole near the corner of his eye.

Exactly like mine when I was twenty.

Ethan leaned in, his cologne thick in the air.