Husband, Congratulations! I'm Dying

“What do you mean worse?” Damon sounded irritated. “It’s just a stupid pill. You pumped her stomach already, didn’t you? She’ll live.”

The doctor hesitated. “It’s not just that. The tests show signs of late-stage—”

“I already know,” I croaked, cutting him off. “No need to tell him. He doesn’t care.”

I turned my head away. I couldn’t look at Damon.

He gave a small, cold laugh. “You’re right. I don’t. As long as you’re not dead, I’m fine.”

He turned to leave, but his phone rang. I could hear the woman’s voice through the speaker: sweet, soft, disgusting.

“Damon? Where are you? I miss you.”

He glanced at me, then smiled faintly. “At the hospital. Come here if you miss me that much.”

When he hung up, he looked at me again, smirking. “Didn’t you say you wanted me to stay with you for the next two weeks? Guess your wish is coming true.”

I didn’t answer. I just closed my eyes. My whole body was shaking.

A few minutes later, the door opened and Harper walked in. She froze when she saw me on the bed, then quickly looked down and walked straight to Damon.

He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Come here,” he murmured before kissing her, right there in front of me.

She kissed him back deeper and the sound of it made my stomach twist harder than the medicine ever did.

Something in me snapped.

I grabbed the vase on the bedside table and hurled it at them. “Get out!” My voice cracked. “Get the hell out of my room!”

The vase shattered. Damon turned fast, blocking Harper with his arm, but a shard still grazed her cheek. A thin line of blood appeared.

He glared at me. She gasped and clung to him like a scared child.

“Damon…” Harper covered her cheek with both hands, tears spilling down her face. “My face—it hurts…”

I watched the way Damon froze. His whole expression changed, like someone had punched the air out of him. Then that panic came—real, desperate panic. The kind I never got to see.

He rushed to her side, lifted her into his arms as if she’d break. “Don’t touch it. You’ll make it worse.”

He turned to the guards, “Get the head of dermatology. No, forget it, call the top foreign doctors. Use the helicopter if you have to! Now!”

They scattered instantly.

I just sat there, leaning against the cold metal bedrail, watching him disappear down the hallway with Harper in his arms. His voice echoed from afar—“Make sure she heals clean. No scars, do you hear me?”

The sound of it felt like a knife scraping over my ribs, slow and dull.

I looked down at my hands. The back of them was full of tiny purple bruises from needles. My fingers were shaking, but I still laughed—quiet, dry, bitter.

Harper only looked a little like Sylvia. Just enough to fool him. Just enough for him to lose his mind over her.

And me the woman he married could bleed out right in front of him, and he wouldn’t even blink.

My stomach twisted again, sharp pain spreading through me. I curled up and waited for it to pass, the thin hospital gown sticking to my skin with sweat.

The next few days blurred together. Pills, injections, pain. Everything hurt. I was so thin I could see the outline of my ribs. My hair came off in handfuls. Even the nurses looked at me with pity, sometimes slipping extra painkillers into my IV.

I didn’t ask. I didn’t thank them either.

Then one afternoon, the door slammed open. Damon stormed in, his face like thunder.

Before I could sit up, he yanked me off the bed by the arm. “Harper almost lost her face because of you!” His voice was cold enough to make my skin crawl. “Are you proud of yourself now?”

I could barely stand. “It was just a scratch,” I whispered.

His hand tightened. “Shut up! You think you can hurt her and get away with it?”

He dragged me down the hall. I stumbled after him, too weak to fight back. Two bodyguards followed close behind.

When we reached the staircase, I saw broken glass scattered all over the steps. My heart dropped.

“Damon—what are you doing?”

He didn’t even look at me. “You like causing pain, right? Let’s see how you handle it.” He nodded to the guards. “Do it.”

I clung to the railing, breath trembling. “She’s not Sylvia! You’re losing your mind!”

He finally looked at me, eyes wild. “She doesn’t need to be Sylvia. She just needs to look like her.”

“Damon—”

He gestured.

The guard shoved me hard.

Pain exploded through my body as I hit the stairs, glass digging into my skin. I couldn’t even scream properly; all that came out was a choked sound. Blood ran down the steps in a slow trail.

Before I could even lift my head, another push came. Then another.

By the third fall, I couldn’t move anymore. The taste of blood filled my mouth. My chest burned. I heard someone shouting, then nothing but ringing in my ears.

When I woke up, I was back in the hospital. Everything hurt. My body, my chest, even breathing.

Outside the curtain, two nurses were whispering.

“Miss Harper’s fine already,” one said softly. “President Whitlocke’s been by her side every day. He treats her like she’s made of glass.”

The other sighed. “And the woman in bed 302... she’s covered in bruises. No one even visits her. Isn’t she his real wife?”

“Shh, don’t talk about it. You’ll get in trouble.”

Their voices faded as they walked away.

I closed my eyes. My throat burned, but no sound came out. Tears just slipped down the sides of my face, soaking into the pillow.

I stayed a few more days, but there was no point anymore. The painkillers barely worked. The doctors couldn’t help.

So one morning, I signed myself out.