Your Regret, My Revenge

Confronting him head-on was useless. He'd have a million lies ready.

He'd say I misheard, that he was joking.

I needed proof.

I fumbled under the pillow for my backup phone, the old one I'd used before getting sick.

I remembered we once shared a cloud storage account, linked to this long-deactivated number. Later, he said he needed a new one for work, and this old one was never logged into again.

Could there be something there?

With shaking fingers, I entered the remembered username and password, using the old phone to get the verification code.

I logged in successfully.

The cloud photo album was mostly clean, just a few old photos of us from years ago.

Just as I was about to give up, I spotted an encrypted album tucked away in an inconspicuous corner.

My heart hammered, fingers turning cold.

I tried my birthday. Wrong.

Then I tried our wedding anniversary date, but it was still wrong.

Cathryn…

I suddenly remembered Vincent once inadvertently mentioned that his college sweetheart had a "Ryn" in her name.

He said it was just a dumb part of his past.

I took a deep breath and typed into the password field: Cathryn's spelling, plus a date important to Vincent.

The album unlocked.

The first photo hit me the moment the screen lit up.

It was Vincent and Cathryn.

She was nestled against him, smiling happily.

Vincent looked down at her with a tenderness in his eyes I'd never seen—deep, unguarded affection.

I scrolled down. Each photo was a precise stab into the softest part of my heart.

Most were intimate shots of the two of them.

It was a high-end restaurant, a familiar setting—the one where we celebrated our first wedding anniversary. The photo's timestamp was the second month after my leukemia diagnosis.

So, while I was being wheeled into the sterile room for my first agonizing chemo session, he was rekindling an old flame over dinner.

In a park, Vincent crouched to tie her shoelace. Another of him holding her from behind, his hands resting on her growing baby bump. His face held a genuine joy I'd never witnessed—the real joy of an expectant father.

There were ultrasound printouts, carefully photographed and saved.

One had a red circle around a blurry shape, with Vincent's scrawled handwriting next to it. "My son, I'm waiting for you."

The date was half a year ago.

Looking at these photos felt like drowning, wrapped in icy seawater, unable to breathe.

The unwavering devotion I thought I had was a three-year-long con.

My salvation was the greatest irony.

I didn't cry. Calmly, methodically, I used the backup phone to photograph every single picture, saving them to a password-protected local album.

This was ironclad proof of his betrayal.

Just as I was about to log out, my finger accidentally tapped a folder named "Finance Backup."

It held emails and statements Vincent had synced over the years.

A congratulatory email from a real estate agent jumped out.

I opened it. The subject, "Congratulations, Mr. Jenkins, on your successful purchase of Seaville Villa, Building A."

Seaville Villa, Building A. That was my parents' legacy to me, our marital home.

The attachment was a scanned purchase contract. The buyer was Cathryn. The payment account was our joint marital account.

He used our money to buy my home for his mistress.

But that huge sum… even emptying our joint account wouldn't have covered it. Where did the rest come from?

My eyes locked onto another document in the folder.

I opened it. A detailed spreadsheet unfolded.

One column listed donors: my parents, my best friend, the neighbor uncle who watched me grow up… every name a weight of love and care.

The other column listed amounts—each one hard-earned savings, carefully scraped together.

At the bottom was a glaring total sum.

The amount raised to save my life matched the purchase price on the contract, down to the last cent.

He hadn't just emptied our home. He had monetized my dying, squeezed dry the goodwill of everyone who loved me, to pave the way for his new family.

This wasn't just betrayal or theft.

This was picking the bones clean.

Utterly shameless.

I trembled with rage, my stomach lurching, bile rising in my throat.

Right then, the hospital room door opened.

It was Vincent.

He carried a thermal lunchbox, his face wearing that same gentle smile as always.

"Brenna, you're awake? How are you feeling today? I made you some tonic medicine. Drink it while it's hot."

I quickly locked the phone screen, shoved it under the pillow, and mustered every ounce of strength to pull a pale smile onto my face.

He brought the bowl of dark, bitter liquid to me.

Looking at it, I suddenly caught an extremely faint, yet distinct, medicinal smell mixed in with the heavy herbal bitterness.

When I was sick and foggy, I never paid attention.

But now, that scent pierced my memory like a needle.

A close friend of mine, when she was pregnant, her mother-in-law made her a daily prenatal tonic. It smelled exactly like this.

A terrifying thought exploded in my mind.

I took the bowl and, without hesitation, drank it all down.

Vincent seemed pleased with my obedience. He took the empty bowl, then as usual, took out a damp towel and gently wiped the corner of my mouth.

"Good girl. I have another meeting. I'll be back to keep you company after."

He kissed my forehead and left.

The moment the door closed, I couldn't hold back. I rushed into the bathroom, collapsing over the toilet, vomiting violently.

I wasn't just throwing up stomach acid, but that medicine.

The peculiar smell was even clearer now.

Prenatal tonic…

My husband's mistress was pregnant. And I, his wife, was drinking the so-called "precious" tonic he brought me every day.

The truth was peeling back layer by layer like an onion, stinging my eyes.

What I drank wasn't tonic at all.

It was the dregs of his mistress's medicine.

He gave the potent first brew to his precious darling.

Then he took the leftovers, boiled them again, and fed them to his dying wife like slop.

It was disgusting.

It was utterly revolting.

"Ugh—"

As I hung over the toilet, retching my guts out, I heard the last sound I wanted to hear.

The hospital room door opened again.

"Brenna? I forgot my phone here."

It was Vincent! He came back!

My heart stopped, my blood froze.

I couldn't let him find out!

With all my strength, I slammed my hand on the flush lever. The loud rush of water drowned out my ragged gasps.

I turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on my face, forcing a smile at my reflection in the mirror.

"What's wrong? Not feeling well again?" Vincent's voice came from the doorway, tinged with concern.

I turned, leaning against the sink, feigning weakness.

"It's nothing. Just the usual, side effects from the chemo."

I even managed to give him a grateful, apologetic smile.

"Thank you, honey. The medicine today… it was good."

Seeing my pale but obedient face, Vincent relaxed completely. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, gave me a few more instructions, and finally left for good.

After he was gone, all strength left my body. I slid down the wall onto the cold tile floor.

It took a long time before I struggled back to bed.

I picked up the backup phone and, almost against my will, opened that encrypted album again.

Like a masochist, I scrolled through, numb, until the last one.

The screen lit up. My breath stopped completely.

The scene was our master bedroom and our marital bed.

And there was Cathryn, wearing my favorite silk nightgown, lying on my side of the bed.

Her collarbone was dotted with intimate red marks.

It was a photo of them having sex.