Swapped Diagnosis My Dying Husband Kicked Me Out Penniless

He didn't look at me. Just tossed the papers onto the coffee table.

"Sign it."

I walked over and picked them up.

It was a divorce agreement. The house belonged to the husband. The car belonged to the husband. The savings belonged to the husband. The wife would leave with nothing, forfeiting all rights to marital property.

Not a single crumb left for me.

"Thaddeus," I said, looking at the man I'd spent three years of my life with. "I'm leaving. Does that make you feel even a little sorry?"

He let out a contemptuous laugh, then settled onto the couch beside his mother and lit a cigarette. Through the haze of smoke, his face looked warped.

"Sorry?" He flicked ash onto the floor. "The only thing I regret is not dumping you sooner." His eyes dragged over me with undisguised disgust. "Everything you own isn't worth two hundred bucks. You couldn't even afford to embarrass yourself in public. Paulette is young, beautiful, graduated from a top university, and most importantly, she can give me a son. And you? You've been taking up space without producing an heir, and now you've got a terminal illness on top of it. What am I supposed to do, wait around for you to die and then arrange the funeral?"

Mrs. Gilbert Sr. chimed right in. "Exactly! The Gilbert family line has been passed down for generations. It will NOT end because of you!"

Watching the two of them, mother and son, I felt strangely calm.

Late-stage pancreatic cancer. His reproductive function was already gone. What pregnancy was Paulette Fox carrying?

A man like Thaddeus Gilbert. Someone could sell him out and he'd count the cash for them.

"Fine. I'll sign."

I picked up the pen and held it above the paper.

A flash of wild elation crossed Thaddeus's eyes.

"But I have a condition."

His expression curdled instantly. "On what grounds?"

"I want five hundred thousand dollars in cash. The moment I sign, I walk out that door and you'll never hear from me again. Otherwise, I'll die right here in this house and turn it into a place no one will ever want to live in."

Mrs. Gilbert Sr. sneered. "You think your life is worth five hundred thousand?"

As if a life could be measured in dollars.

Thaddeus pressed a hand on her arm, his face dark and menacing as he stared at me. "Pearl. Are you threatening me?"

"It's a transaction. Five hundred thousand buys you a lifetime of happiness and a birth certificate for your son. You're telling me that's not worth it?"

His jaw worked silently. I could practically see the calculations ticking behind his eyes: She's only got three months left anyway. The money goes out, but she won't live long enough to spend it all. Once she's dead, it comes right back to me.

"Deal!" The word squeezed through his clenched teeth. "Your turn. Sign. Now."

My phone chimed.

Five hundred thousand dollars. Deposited.

I checked the balance notification, then signed my name in one clean stroke.

Pearl Cobb. The ink was still wet.

From this moment forward, there was nothing between Thaddeus Gilbert and me but a debt to settle.

Mrs. Gilbert Sr. snatched up the agreement and clutched it to her chest like a trophy.

"What's the rush?" I rolled up my sleeves and headed for the kitchen. "Let me cook one last meal. For old times' sake. A peaceful parting."

Thaddeus frowned, ready to refuse, but then glanced at his watch and changed his mind. "Make it quick. Paulette's coming for dinner. I don't want her seeing you here."

I stepped into the kitchen and shut the door behind me.

The sound of their laughter cut off like a switch.

I unwrapped the fresh pork belly and the blocks of lard I'd bought earlier.

This farewell dinner would be anything but bland.

Thaddeus's favorite dishes, every single one of them, now served a different purpose entirely. Braised pork belly, glistening in a ruby-red glaze of caramelized sugar, swimming in rendered fat and heavy sauce. Deep-fried pork intestines, deliberately left pungent, fried until the outside shattered and the inside stayed tender. And a whole pot of lard-crackle tofu soup, rich enough to coat the back of a spoon.

Every dish loaded with fat, protein, and sugar.

For a late-stage pancreatic cancer patient, this wasn't a meal. It was poison.

When the aroma filled the apartment, Paulette Fox arrived.

From behind the kitchen door came a syrupy "Thaddy!" followed by Mrs. Gilbert Sr.'s fawning laughter, dripping with approval.

I carried the dishes out.

Paulette was wearing the latest Chanel, carrying a gift bag of high-end supplements, draped against Thaddeus's chest like she belonged there.

The moment she saw me, her nose wrinkled. "Oh my, that grease smell is intense. What on earth did you cook, Pearl? It's so heavy and oily. How is Thaddy supposed to eat any of this?"