The Husband She Tried to Cash Out

Drenched in mud, I've just climbed down the scaffolding and started munching on a cold piece of stale bread when a luxury car speeds past me, effectively drenching me in muddy water.

The car window on the driver's side is quickly lowered. A sleazy guy hurls a pack of cigarettes in my face the next moment.

"Hey, peasant! This is a reward for you! I got really lucky today, after all!"

While I pick up the cigarette pack silently, the man happens to be boasting loudly to the woman sitting in the front passenger seat.

"My brother-in-law really is an idiot! He seriously thinks that my sister has a terminal disease! He went to the black market last night night just to sell his blood in exchange for 200 thousand dollars' worth of surgical fees! I end up winning double in the casino with that money of his!

"My sister told me that once that idiot gets his hands on the work injury compensation, she'll divorce him right away and buy me a new home!"

I grip the bread so hard that it crumples in my hand. After all, my wife, Estella Wilson, was just diagnosed with "late-stage stomach cancer" yesterday.

Suddenly, I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. It's a voice message from Estella.

"Hubby, it hurts so much going through the chemotherapy! The doctor told me that I'd be eligible for better medication if we could cough up another 200 thousand dollars. Can you please plead to the foreman and borrow some money from him?"

A sharp spasm twisted in my stomach as pain rippled through my body. Just yesterday afternoon, I—Raphael Krause—sold 14 ounces of my blood on the black market.

The puncture wound was still throbbing faintly as the skin around it bruised a deep, ugly purple.

Blake Wilson's mocking laugh echoed in my ears even after his luxury car had disappeared into the distance.

My eyes lingered on Estella Wilson's profile picture on my screen, her bright smile bathed in sunlight.

A metallic taste surged in my throat before I forced it back down. My voice was so hoarse that it was barely recognizable when I pressed the voice message button.

"Okay, honey, don't be afraid. I'll go borrow some money right now, so just focus on getting better," I coaxed her.

Then, I picked up the stale piece of bread from the ground and carefully brushed off the dirt. I ate it as I trudged back home, my legs feeling like lead.

By the time I made my way back to the shabby rental in the rundown district of Borellia, night had already fallen.

Estella lay weakly on the worn wooden bed with a washed-out blanket covering her. A pile of blood-stained tissues lay crumpled on the bedside table.

She immediately broke into a coughing fit when she heard the door open. "Hubby… you're back? It must've been a hard day," she rasped between coughs. Her eyes were red-rimmed as she struggled to turn her head toward me.

I walked over and stood by the bed. A swirl of emotions churned within me as I gazed quietly at Estella.

Her face was pale, likely covered with a thick layer of foundation, yet her hair looked freshly styled. It was smooth and glossy down to the tips.

Would someone suffering from stomach cancer really have the energy to style their hair?

Estella reached out and grasped the mud-stained hem of my shirt. "Did you manage to get the money?"

Of course, money was always the first thing she brought up.

"The foreman wasn't there." I stared straight at her as I spoke.

Estella's expression instantly turned cold as she jerked her hand away from my shirt.

"He wasn't there?" she repeated. "Couldn't you just go to his house and find him? Or is this your way of saying that you won't take care of me anymore? The doctor said that I won't live to see next month if I don't start taking better medicine!"

"Do you know the woman in the next bed, Laura Doyle? Her husband paid 50 thousand dollars on the spot! But what about you?" she snapped.

"I haven't had a single day of happiness since I married you. Now, I'm even about to die!" Her voice grew more agitated with every word as tears spilled down her face.

If it'd been yesterday, I would've already been on my knees, slapping and cursing myself for being useless. But now, I just looked at the blood-stained tissues on her bedside.

Beneath the sharp stench of cheap perfume lingered a sickly-sweet smell of syrup. It was the unmistakable scent of strawberry jam from the supermarket downstairs.