The doctor told me I had just three days to live. My mother-in-law smiled and whispered, “Perfect. Then this house will finally be mine.” My husband laughed. “And I’ll finally marry Jennifer.” They assumed I was too weak to resist. But once they left, I called my father and said, “Dad, it’s time.” His response chilled me: “I’ve been waiting for your call.”
The doctor had barely finished speaking when my mother-in-law smiled. “Three days? Wonderful. Then this house will finally be mine.”
My husband laughed beside her.
“And in three days, I can marry Jennifer.”
I watched them through the hospital room’s glass wall, my fingers cold against the blanket.
Dr. Harris had just delivered what sounded like a death sentence.
Three days.
That was how long my already severe heart condition might take to cause catastrophic failure.
My husband, Daniel, had held my hand until the doctor finished. Then he let go.
Now I knew why.
His mother, Margaret, approached my bed, filling the room with expensive perfume.
“You should sign the property transfer tomorrow,” she said. “There is no point making things difficult.”
I swallowed.
“You already planned this?”
Daniel shrugged. “What did you expect? You have no children. Your house is valuable. Someone has to inherit it.”
“Someone?”
“Mother.”
Margaret smiled.
“And Jennifer deserves a proper home after the wedding.”
Jennifer.
Daniel’s secretary.
His mistress.
And apparently, his future wife.
I faced Daniel.
“You’re not even going to pretend you loved me?”
He chuckled.
“Love doesn’t pay mortgages.”
They left together.
The door clicked shut.
I listened until their footsteps faded.
Then I picked up my phone.
My hand was steady now.
I dialed one number.
“Dad?”
Silence.
Then came his familiar voice.
“I’m listening.”
“Dad,” I whispered, “it’s time.”
He slowly exhaled.
“I’ve been waiting for this call.”
I closed my eyes.
For three years, I had concealed the truth from Daniel.
He thought I was an ordinary housewife who had inherited an old house from her mother.
He assumed I had no business ties, influence, or wealth beyond that property.
Above all, he believed my father was dead.
He wasn’t.
And tomorrow, Daniel would learn who he had really married.
“Bring the folder,” I said.
My father replied calmly.
“I already have it.”
That night, I stopped being Daniel’s dying wife.
I became the woman who had prepared for his betrayal for three years.
And he had given me three days.
More than enough.
By morning, Daniel was acting as though he already owned the house.
He entered my hospital room in a new suit, papers tucked under his arm.