Wealth, Cheating, and Prison

This was my so-called husband, who was the CEO of a company.

My father had been struggling on the brink of life and death, yet I failed to get 10 thousand dollars from my husband to save him..

His little assistant had only acted coy for a moment, and he decided to spend a million dollars on her.

I stared at the photos, my heart aching to the core.

After a long while, I finally heard the nurse urging me from the side. "Ms. Jackson, which type of stent are you choosing? If this drags on any longer, the patient may be in danger."

I raised my head and looked through the glass window at my father's body, curled up in pain.

"Let’s use the imported stents. I'll have the deposit in place immediately."

The moment I signed my name, I felt as though I was left with absolutely no dignity at all.

I let out a self-mocking, bitter smile.

Cameron, in three years of marriage, I had drawn hundreds of design plans for you—each one a cornerstone of the Lister Group's rise.

Yet to you, my father's life wasn’t even worth 10 thousand dollars.

Was my love and dedication really inferior to a little assistant who had only just appeared by your side?

My father's surgery hadn’t gone smoothly, and the post-transplant rejection had been severe. He was transferred to the ICU.

I kept vigil outside the doors all night without sleep.

Early the next morning, I dragged my stiff body back home.

When I pushed the door open, a pair of red-soled high heels lay in the hallway.

In the living room, Cameron was having breakfast.

A fried egg, black coffee, and a freshly delivered financial newspaper.

When he saw me, he furrowed his brows slightly. "Why do you look so disheveled? You're covered in the smell of disinfectant."

I did not change my shoes and walked straight over to sit across from him. "Dad was admitted to the ICU. Things were critical last night."

He continued eating. "People get sick when they're old. I'll have an assistant send a fruit basket over to the ICU. Oh right, you need to revise the design plans for the Summit Project and send them to me by tonight."

This was my husband.

My father's fate was still uncertain, yet all he cared about was my labor output.

"Cameron!" I stared into his eyes! "how much did Wendy's art exhibition cost?"

The knife and fork scraped across the plate with a sharp, grating sound.

He set down the cutlery and wiped his mouth gracefully. "That was a company brand PR activity, meant to establish an image of supporting young artists. The budget was approved by the marketing department. Why, are you auditing the accounts?"

"It was a million dollars," I said coldly. "Brand PR? Since when did the Lister Group start investing in abstract graffiti?"

Cameron's face darkened. "Nina, are you questioning me? Don't forget, you're the company's chief designer and the CEO's wife. Can't your perspective be a little broader? Don't keep staring at such small sums of money."

"Small sums?" I laughed, tears almost spilling out. "My dad was waiting for 10 thousand dollars to save his life. You said company funds were locked up, yet you turned around and gave a million dollars to your little lover for an art exhibition and you still say this is me being small-minded?"

"Nina, watch your mouth!" Cameron slammed the table. "Wendy is a talented newcomer. We need to cultivate her—"

"Talent?" I cut him off. "Drawing a few circles and irregular triangles counts as talent? Then what were all those design blueprints I worked on day and night? Waste paper?"

Cameron stood up and looked down at me from above, his eyes full of disappointment. "You’ve changed, Nina. You weren't this mercenary before. Is it because I've been too busy lately and didn't take the time to rein you in? That's enough. Take this card and go eat something nice to cool off. The limit is 100 dollars—don't max it out."