Cancer Couldn’t Kill Me But You Did

Five years ago, at a ski resort in Aspen, I saved an amnesiac Liam Kingston. For him, it was love at first sight. Five years later, we were married.

But on the second day of our marriage, his memory returned. And his fiancée from the prominent Vanderbilt family, Chloe, appeared at his side.

His assistant handed him a private investigator's report. The report spun a tale of me orchestrating the skiing accident, a deliberate scheme to marry into wealth. It even claimed Chloe's chronic illness had relapsed from the stress of his disappearance.

Liam believed every word. He pulled Chloe into a pained embrace, then slapped me hard across the face, accusing me of being the one who had truly harmed her.

He put me under house arrest in the penthouse, cutting me off from the outside world entirely.

Three months later, when Liam saw me again, I was hiding a cancer diagnosis. I simply handed him the divorce papers. "Let's get a divorce, Liam."

...

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1

His deep-set eyes narrowed, his brows drawing together sharply. "It's been three months, and that's the only thing you have to say to me?"

He stared, searching my expression for the adoration and humility he expected.

After all, in his mind, our meeting, our love—it was all just a calculated scheme to secure my place in the Kingston family.

But he didn't know that in the three months he had imprisoned me here, I had endured constant vomiting, high fevers, diarrhea, and finally, a terminal liver cancer diagnosis.

I pulled my mask up higher, hiding my pale, gaunt face. "Yes. All I want right now is a divorce. Sign it."

He clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. "Have you any idea what Chloe has endured for the past five years? The accident you engineered destroyed her life."

I met his eyes, my own filled with sorrow.

He knew perfectly well that my parents had died in a shipwreck. He knew I had a deep-seated trauma surrounding speed and any loss of control. I hadn't even dared to touch a pair of skis since.

For five years, whether it was a trip to the supermarket a few blocks away or a long drive at three in the morning to see an architectural exhibition, he had always driven me himself.

He used to say that as long as I was scared, he'd be the one driving. All I had to do was sit beside him.

"Your report says I orchestrated an avalanche to crash into you," I said, my voice quiet. "But you know I'm terrified of losing control. So terrified I can't even stand on skis."

He flinched, a flicker of doubt crossing his eyes.

Chloe immediately stepped forward, clutching a detailed report as if it were irrefutable proof. "Staging one little accident to become Mrs. Kingston is quite a bargain, isn't it? Perhaps even your so-called fear is just part of your carefully crafted persona."

Understanding flashed across his face, and his gaze turned icy once more. "So you really are that calculating."

He believed Chloe, he believed his assistant, he believed that report—he believed everyone but me. Because in his eyes, I was the one with the most to gain—the future matriarch of the Kingston family.

But I never cared about being Mrs. Kingston.

All I ever loved was the man who would wake up at three in the morning just to drive me to an architectural exhibition.

And now, that man was dead.

"If you say so, then I suppose it's true," I said, a sarcastic smile touching my lips. I just wanted this farce to end.

The day he regained his memory, I had tried to explain. But Chloe had merely swayed feebly before me, and he had slapped me.

I collapsed, a sudden chill seizing me, but he just held Chloe and turned to leave. "Stop acting. I won't fall for your tricks again."

That day, I was diagnosed with a rare form of liver cancer with an extremely high mortality rate. There were no effective treatments available in the United States.

The doctor said, "The targeted therapies for this are incredibly rare, even overseas. You can try to get into a clinical trial, or... if you know someone with the Kingston family, their foundation might be a way to access them."

I called Liam. The moment I said, "I'm sick," I heard his cold laughter. "If someone has to have liver cancer, I'd rather it be you than Chloe."

"She suffered so much because of you. You should be the one dying in her place."

Later, I heard that Chloe's chronic illness had symptoms similar to my liver cancer. Liam spent hundreds of millions to import targeted therapy drugs, and piles of those scarce medications filled Chloe's room.

I was tired. I pushed the divorce papers toward him again. "I've stood in the way of your wedding for five years. Now, I'm setting you free."

My voice was as still as stagnant water. His brow furrowed as he listened, his gaze fixed on my lifeless eyes. An inexplicable tightness gripped his chest, a suffocating pressure that quickly ignited into raw fury.

"You think I'm afraid to sign this? Fine. But don't you dare regret it."

He snatched the pen and signed his name with a vicious flourish. "Even after the divorce, don't think you can escape. I'll make you pay for every ounce of suffering Chloe endured because of you."

I laughed, then broke into a violent fit of coughing. "Then you'd better hurry."

Before I die.