He Chose The Mistress, She Signed Her Own Death Certificate

Olivia barely managed to flag down a taxi and haul herself into the back seat; the agony was so sharp and relentless that she instinctively curled into a ball, her breathing coming in ragged, desperate gasps.

At that same moment, Callum's black Cayenne surged past, its engine letting out a low roar as it disappeared into the thick of the traffic.

Settled behind the wheel, Callum was already focused on his call with Kaylee.

"It's over now. Don't carry any guilt—she and I made this decision together. I'm heading your way now, and I'll make sure to pick up your favorite bouquet."

Fighting a losing battle against the pain, Olivia used her fading strength to dial a familiar number, but the darkness claimed her before she could utter a single word.

Olivia felt as though she had been wandering through an endless, suffocating void for an eternity.

It was as if she had traversed jagged peaks and struggled through rising currents; the metallic, haunting scent of her own life force ebbed away.

Though her spirit was flagging and every muscle screamed for rest, a flicker of raw survival instinct kept pushing her forward, refusing to let her give in.

Centuries seemed to pass before the low murmur of voices reached her, accompanied by the sterile, clinical sting of disinfectant. Slowly, her eyelids fluttered open.

A blurred, towering silhouette began to take shape in her field of vision.

Driven by a deep-seated instinct, she breathed a single name into the quiet. "Callum..."

"Olivia!" The figure moved closer, and a soothingly cool palm settled against her brow.

As the fog finally cleared, the features of the man standing over her came into sharp focus.

The man wasn't Callum; instead, it was Michael Scott, her friend since childhood.

He had once been the undisputed star of their medical school, a brilliant mind who had half the female student body trailing in his wake.

Now, he stood as the head of hematology in an exclusive hospital, his handsome features framed by rimless glasses that lent him a sophisticated, scholarly charm.

The memories of the taxi ride flooded back, and a trace of bitter irony touched her lips. "So you saved me again."

The sound of her whispering Callum's name still echoed in Michael's mind, sending a sharp, familiar pang of hurt through his chest.

For over ten years, he had carried a silent crush on her, well aware that Callum held a permanent, untouchable lease on her heart. Letting out a weary sigh, he retrieved her phone and handed it back to Olivia.

"I've reviewed your complete lab results. It's grimmer than we anticipated—you're at risk of burning it out at any second. Do you want me to call Callum?"

Olivia pushed herself up against the headboard, her movements slow but determined. She gave a faint shake of her head, her voice eerily steady. "We're going through a divorce."

Michael went completely still.

"He's marrying Kaylee," she added flatly.

The device tumbled from Michael's hand onto the mattress. The revelation hit him like a physical blow, leaving him reeling.

Olivia met his eyes with a faint, ironic smile.

"Kaylee's claim is that she's terminal with only a year left. Her final request was to have Callum by her side, and he didn't hesitate to say yes."

"That absolute bastard!" Michael hissed, his hands curling into tight fists. "You're on the same clock! How can he just walk away from his wife for someone else?"

He pivoted, intent on tracking Callum down for a reckoning.

Olivia caught his arm. "Michael, honestly, I feel a sense of relief. At least I won't die under the delusion that he ever actually loved me. Imagine how pathetic it would be to meet my parents in the afterlife still holding onto a lie."

She tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with a momentary warmth that reminded him of the woman she used to be—vibrant, happy, and untouched by tragedy.

If only that one moment in time hadn't shattered everything.

Michael fought back tears, forcing a professional mask into place. "I'm starting your admission paperwork."

"Don't bother," she countered. "We both know this is incurable. I'm not spending my final year in a sterile room. I have work to do. Just keep this between us—no one else can know. My time is too valuable to waste on drama."

Recognizing her stubborn resolve, Michael gave a pained nod. He insisted on a twenty-four-hour observation period and ordered a nurse to start her on fresh IV nutritional fluids.

As the fluids slowly entered her system, Olivia reached out to Peter Ford, the director at the Oasis Research Institute, to initiate the revival of the Beacon project.

The Beacon project was her parents' legacy, a mission they had poured everything into before their lives were cut short in a tragic accident halfway through its development.

Without their leadership, the remaining team couldn't sustain the initiative, and the project was shelved indefinitely.

Olivia had been paralyzed by grief for years, unable to face the work her parents left behind or the crushing realization that finishing the Beacon project was their ultimate final wish.

The weight of her inaction felt like a betrayal.

"Olivia, I'm thrilled you're ready to bring the Beacon project back to life—it's a ray of hope for so many blood disease patients," Peter said, his voice thick with worry. "You have my full backing, but that drug trial you just finished was brutal on your system. You need at least six months of rest and regular monitoring. The project isn't going anywhere; we can wait until you're healthy."

A hollow smile touched her lips. Time was the one luxury she no longer possessed.

The physical toll was irreversible; even the most brilliant medical minds couldn't pull her back from the edge now.

"I appreciate the concern, Peter, but there's no time for that. Let's get things going as soon as possible. I'll be there tomorrow morning."

Following a long beat of hesitation, Peter finally gave in.

Olivia let out a shaky breath as she ended the call, only for a sharp irritation to seize her throat. She yanked the IV from her vein and stumbled to the bathroom, barely making it to the sink before coughing up a spray of crimson.

She frantically scrubbed the basin, her heart hammering with the fear that Michael would find the evidence and force her to stay bedridden in the hospital.

Once the sink was spotless, she headed for the door to summon a nurse for the IV. Her footsteps stopped cold when a live news broadcast caught her eye on the hallway monitor.

The screen showed a swarm of reporters outside the Jackson Group's R&D facility, all clamoring around Kaylee.

Callum stood tall at her side, his powerful silhouette commanding the attention of everyone in the frame.