My Fiancée is A Mistress

Flashback to a bit earlier, I was in a hospital bed, fighting for life.

The doctor's relentless words echoed in my ears.

"The strychnine you swallowed... too much, too late for a pump or transfusion. We missed the golden hour to save you."

So this is it—I'm dying?

Strychnine, what the hell is that?

As I faced death, Sarah's face invaded my thoughts.

She's been my wife for three years.

She was into herbal remedies back in college.

Recently, she'd been brewing my daily coffee.

I recalled those odd button-like herbs in my cup—Sarah claimed they were just special herbs for me.

But they were strychnine...

After just four days, I ended up like this.

I felt my body cool down, and my eyelids grew heavy.

It felt like my consciousness was floating away, my body light as a feather, my soul nearly escaping.

"What are you doing? Sarah's almost here!"

Someone shook me hard, snapping me back to reality.

My eyes fluttered open on a park bench, clutching white roses and a small box.

The ring for the proposal, which I picked out myself three years ago.

I frowned at the ring.

It was tiny, just one carat.

Sarah had cried with joy then, and I vowed to hustle harder to upgrade her diamond by next year.

Over those three years, I not only upgraded the diamond but also bought gold bars, all handed to her.

Except for that house she wanted—I hadn't managed the down payment yet. Whatever she wished for, I delivered.

Yet now...

"What's got you spaced out? Rough morning?"

Paul, my lifelong pal, was waving his hand in my face, trying to snap me out of it.

"I don't wanna propose anymore."

I eyed Paul, suited up just for my big moment.

"What? Cut the crap, she's right here." He didn't take me seriously.

Paul wasn't just any friend; he was slated to be my boss.

I trusted him as much as I trusted myself.

Sarah approached, flanked by her bridesmaids.

As Paul pushed me forward, the crowd started cheering.

I locked my eyes on this woman I'd loved for ages.

I knew every detail of her face, every little mark, like the mole at her waist.

Instinctively, I began to kneel, but as my knee touched the ground, the doctor's words flashed back.

"Too much strychnine in your system."

Proposing? Not a chance.

No way I was tying the knot with someone who had tried to kill me.

I left the ring behind and walked out, leaving behind the scene where I felt like a total fool.