Betrayed Wife's New Life

The camera's red light blinked steadily as I adjusted the angle, ensuring our bedroom looked perfect in the frame. Morning sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting a golden glow across our rumpled sheets. I checked my reflection in the small mirror on my nightstand—my smile was bright, my eyes carefully blank.

"Are you ready for your breakfast, Mrs. Austin?" Vincent's voice came from the doorway, artificially cheerful. He balanced a tray with pancakes, fresh strawberries, and orange juice—the breakfast I'd mentioned wanting months ago.

"Perfect timing," I said, gesturing for him to enter the frame. "The camera's already rolling."

He set the tray down carefully, leaning in to kiss my forehead. His cologne smelled expensive, probably a gift from Harlow. I didn't flinch.

"Happy Wednesday, my love," he murmured, his hand lingering on my shoulder.

I tilted my head up, capturing the perfect angle of his concerned expression. "Thank you for this. You always know exactly what I need."

The words tasted like ash in my mouth.

"Is this okay?" he asked, nodding toward the camera.

"Perfect," I replied, my voice honey-sweet. "Our followers love seeing these little moments."

I'd started the "Happily Married Life" series three days after Harlow's revelation. Each video was a masterpiece of deception—meticulously planned, perfectly executed. I'd become an expert at angling the camera to capture Vincent's apparent devotion while ensuring my own performance was flawless.

Later, editing the footage in my study, I added soft music and gentle transitions. The final product would show a loving husband bringing breakfast to his adoring wife, their marriage a testament to modern romance.

Only I could see the hollowness behind my smile.

---

"He's doing it again."

My mother's voice cut through the café's ambient noise like a knife. I looked up from stirring my untouched latte to find her studying me with clinical detachment.

"Doing what?" I asked, though I already knew.

"Pretending everything is fine." She smoothed her designer dress, a gift from my stepfather—the same man who had once cornered me in his study. "It's been three weeks since you found out about Harlow and Vincent. Three weeks of this... charade."

I set my cup down carefully. "What do you want, Mother?"

"I want you to be reasonable." She leaned forward, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You need to divorce Vincent."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "Excuse me?"

"Elizabeth, be practical." Her perfectly manicured hand reached across the table to touch mine. I pulled away. "You're dying anyway. Harlow has a child to think about—a little boy who needs his father. You're being selfish holding onto a marriage that's already over."

I stared at her, this woman who had never once put my needs before Harlow's. Even now, with my diagnosis hanging between us, she couldn't offer comfort or support.

"Selfish?" My voice remained steady, though something inside me was cracking. "You want me to divorce my husband so my stepsister can have him without scandal?"

"Think about what's best for everyone," she insisted. "Harlow's son deserves—"

"No." The word came out sharper than intended. Several nearby patrons turned to look. "Absolutely not."

My mother's eyes narrowed. "You're making this difficult for everyone."

"I'm not doing this for anyone but myself," I said, gathering my purse. "And I won't do it."

---

The headache started that evening—a dull throb behind my left eye that gradually intensified until I could barely see straight. I gripped the edge of the bathroom counter, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass.

In the mirror, my face looked pale, almost translucent. Dark circles shadowed my eyes despite my careful makeup. I'd canceled my appointment at the cancer treatment center yesterday, unable to face the reality of what awaited me there.

"Elizabeth?" Vincent called from downstairs. "Are you coming to bed?"

"Just a minute!" I called back, forcing brightness into my voice.

I popped two Tylenol, swallowing them dry as another wave of dizziness washed over me. The room tilted dangerously, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision.

I needed to finish editing today's vlog entry. The followers expected consistency, after all. What would they think if "Happily Married Life" suddenly stopped?

The irony wasn't lost on me—I was documenting a perfect marriage that had never existed, creating evidence of love that had been a lie from the start.

As I made my way downstairs, I mentally calculated how much time I had left. Six months had seemed like an eternity at first. Now, each day felt precious—not because I wanted to live, but because I needed to complete my plan before the cancer took away my ability to execute it.

Vincent was waiting in the living room, his phone in hand. "Who's that doctor you mentioned?" he asked casually. "The one who called about your test results?"

I froze, my hand gripping the banister. "Why?"

"Just curious." He didn't meet my eyes. "You seem different lately."

Different. Yes, I supposed I was. Different in ways he couldn't begin to imagine.

"Dr. Chen," I said finally. "She's just monitoring some routine stuff."

Another lie to add to the growing collection between us.