Once My Husband's Timer Reach Zero, I'll be Filthy Rich

I had just finished mopping the kitchen tiles when I found myself near the living room. The damp rag in my hand was still dripping slightly, leaving faint water marks on the floor. Joseph turned his head, his gaze landing on me before shifting down to the rag in my hand. His expression twisted as if I were nothing more than a stain on the floor—disgusted and irritated.

The next second, he raised his foot and kicked me. I stumbled, landing on the carpet beside the sofa. The impact wasn't harsh enough to cause real pain, but it was meant to humiliate.

"You want to give it a try?" he asked, looking down at me with a mocking smile, his voice carrying the lazy arrogance of a man who believed himself untouchable.

I sat up, patted my knees clean and responded gently, "I wouldn't dare. I know my place."

Without hesitation, I reached under the coffee table and pulled out a brown paper bag, handing it to him. "These are your favorites—strawberry-flavored. Cindy said you enjoy them more this way."

He paused for a moment, his fingers tightening slightly around the bag before he let out a cold sneer. "You're really thorough, Elisa."

"Well, I'm still counting on you to leave me something after you die. I should at least make sure you're happy while you're alive."

My tone was sincere, my face relaxed, as if we were merely discussing whether to have fried or scrambled eggs for breakfast, not a man's impending death.

Joseph stared at me for two seconds, his expression unreadable, before turning away in apparent disgust. He climbed the stairs without another word.

Half an hour later, he came back down—with the seductive beauty he had brought home earlier trailing behind him. By then, I had already changed the sheets in the guest room and sprayed the air with his preferred fragrance—yuzu and sea salt, a scent he found soothing after a long night.

"The light in the left guest room is broken," I reminded him softly as I adjusted the vase on the hallway table. "The right one has fresh sheets. You can go straight there."

The woman hesitated, her eyes darting between Joseph and me, uncertainty flickering in her expression. Then, in a small voice, she asked, "Is she your sister?"

Joseph ignored her, as if the question was beneath him.

I smiled and answered instead, my voice calm. "I'm his wife."

Her expression shifted immediately. There it was—the awkwardness, the discomfort, the urge to take a step back. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, I continued, "But don't worry. We have an open relationship. You can relax."

A flash of doubt crossed her face, but after a brief pause, she nodded and walked into the guest room. I considerately closed the door behind her before turning around, only to meet the gaze of Sasha, one of the maids.

She stood at the end of the hallway, holding a stack of neatly folded bed linens, her expression one of silent disbelief—like someone watching an absurd tragedy unfold.

"Madam... are you really not planning to... divorce?" she finally asked hesitantly.

I let out a soft chuckle, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "If I leave, I'll get nothing. These three years would've been for naught, wouldn't they?"

Sasha opened her mouth, but no words came out. In the end, she simply lowered her head and walked away.

At 3 AM, the noises from the guest's bedroom finally quieted. The muffled sounds of laughter and movement had dragged on for hours.

Wrapped in a coat, I curled up on the sofa downstairs, scrolling through my phone absentmindedly. My mind, however, was focused on something else entirely—the glowing countdown hovering over Joseph's head. [0 days, 13 hours, 42 minutes and 2 seconds.]

Almost there. Only thirteen hours and forty-two minutes left.

I tapped into my schedule and scrolled to tomorrow at 10 AM. Quietly, I clicked the reservation button: [Ferrari Test Drive—Red Portofino M]

A quiet smile tugged at my lips as I put my phone away. Just one more night. The sun would rise soon.

At 7 AM, I stirred from my sleep, my neck aching from the awkward position on the sofa. I had expected to wake up to the chill of the kitchen tiles, to the quiet murmurs of the maids as they gossiped behind my back. But instead, the first thing I saw upon opening my eyes was Joseph, sitting in front of me.

He held a bowl of steaming hot porridge, the faint curl of steam rising into the air. My gaze lifted to his face, then above his head—where the countdown was still running. [0 days, 4 hours, 19 minutes and 25 seconds.]

For the first time in three years, I gave him a genuine, heartfelt smile—one that reached my eyes. Because to me, he no longer looked like my husband. He looked like a mountain of gold.

He wasn't dressed in his usual crisp suit. Instead, he wore casual loungewear, his hair slightly messy, as if he had just woken up. He looked... almost human.

"You don't look well," he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Eat something."

I froze, my throat suddenly dry. "How... thoughtful," I murmured. "Are you trying to poison me? Speeding things up for me?"

He didn't laugh. He didn't sneer or throw the bowl aside in irritation. Instead, he reached out and zipped up my coat, his fingers brushing against the fabric as he pulled it to my chin. His voice was unexpectedly gentle. "Don't say such things."

I hesitated, my gaze shifting to the bowl of porridge in his hands. The last time I saw him in the kitchen was when Cindy got drunk and he had personally made her soup.

And now, he was sitting in front of me, offering me breakfast. I wasn't sure whether to feel amused or suspicious.