In Death, You Finally Learned to Love Me

On the fifth year of our hidden marriage, I died on the operating table of a hospital belonging to Allen Jones.

Before I died, I called him ninety-nine times, begging for help.

The last time, he finally answered. His voice was heavy with impatience.

"Enough already. First, it's pregnancy, now it's liver cancer. Can you stop making a scene? I'm exhausted from work.

"Mia, when did you learn to lie? Do you know how disgusting you are right now?

"I'm warning you—if you keep this up, I'll divorce you. Don't even think about coming back home until you admit you're wrong."

But this time, I could never go back.

Just before the call ended, I heard him comforting Sadie with a gentleness he had never shown me.

"Don't be afraid. The surgery will be over soon, and you'll be fine. Once you're out, I'll take you to see your favorite movie and eat at your favorite restaurant. I promised you, and I'll make it all come true."

After he hung up, I called him for the hundredth time. He didn't answer.

Later, when Allen saw my body on the operating table, he broke down completely.

Allen Jones's phone rang again.

He stood at the door of the operating room, signing the consent form as Sadie Darby's family member.

His ringtone kept echoing through the corridor. One of the Jones family's doctors, noticing it, spoke up with quiet concern.

"Mr. Jones, your wife has called so many times. It must be urgent. Maybe you should check in on her?"

Irritation flickered across Allen's face. His mind was occupied by the surgery Sadie was about to undergo.

"Ignore her. If she has the time to call me this much, she must be bored at home," he said, his voice cold.

"She was the one who left after starting a cold war. Does she expect me to beg her to come back? If she wants to leave, let her. For all I care, she never has to return.

"Five years of marriage, and the only thing she's learned is how to lie. If I believe her now, who knows what tricks she'll pull next? Let her do whatever she wants—I don't care."

On the hospital bed, Sadie's pale face held a faint, fragile smile.

"She must be upset again," she said softly. "You know, you should've deleted those photos. If I were her, I wouldn't want to talk to you either."

Allen didn't mention my name. He only tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.

"Don't worry about her. She'll be fine in a few days. Right now, your surgery is the most important thing. I've arranged everything, and I've got the best doctors handling your surgery."

Sadie smiled again and closed her eyes.

At the same time, in another room. I was strapped to the bed, my limbs bound to the cold metal frame.

A needle pierced my skin, delivering a slow stream of anesthetic into my veins.

The unanswered call still flickered on my phone's screen.

Tears slipped silently from the corners of my eyes, but my fingers had lost the strength to dial again.

'Allen, the thing I regret most in this life is marrying you.'

My hands fell limply to my sides.

As the anesthesia took hold, a white sheet was pulled over my face, and I was wheeled into the operating room.

Three days ago, I found out I was pregnant.

I never had the chance to share the news with Allen.

Instead, I stumbled upon tens of thousands of photos of Sadie hidden on his computer.

At that moment, I finally understood why he insisted on keeping our marriage a secret and why he always kept his distance.

To him, I was nothing more than a tool to appease his family.

Only those closest to him even knew he was married.

And all these years, the woman he loved had always been Sadie.

When she left for overseas, he expanded his business abroad. Every work trip, every meeting, was just an excuse to catch a glimpse of her.

My messages, my worried phone calls—everything I did was nothing but an unbearable burden to him.

That night, I asked him for a divorce.

He refused.

The next day, he packed his bags and moved into his office.

Our first cold war began.

I drafted the divorce papers and waited for him to come home and sign them.

But what arrived first was a diagnosis—late-stage cancer.

I took a taxi to his company to tell him everything.

Before I could reach him, Sadie's people dragged me to the hospital.

She forced my hand onto a donation agreement, pressing my fingerprint onto the paper.

When she left, she forgot to take my phone.

I pinned all my hopes on Allen.

I called him ninety-nine times, begging for his help.

But in the end, this was the answer I got.

'I'm tired. I won't struggle anymore. Allen, this time, I'll set you free.'