Chapter 1

One hour after I was diagnosed with a brain tumor, my husband, Ethan Wood, a superstar, publicly cheated with his agent, Lilian Forster.

Some media outlets bombarded me with calls and asked if I would pay a hefty sum to buy out the scandalous footage.

Watching their intimate figures in the video, I coldly replied, "I won't."

I decided to do what I had wanted to do in the remaining days. I divorced, invested, and rebuilt my gallery.

I wanted to be my own empress.

No one expected that the cheap paintings I casually snapped up would become wildly popular among collectors and that the stocks I bought on a whim would surge overnight.

In just a few weeks, my wealth snowballed. I nearly landed among the top three on the rich list in Preayork.

As Ethan and Lilian mocked that I had no time to enjoy my wealth, the doctor revealed to me that the supposed brain tumor was, in fact, a misdiagnosis...

...

"Mrs. Wood, I'm sorry, but your brain scan results show a malignant tumor. Based on its spread and location, you have about six months left."

I sat in the private suite of a Preayork Hospital, and my fingers traced the metal clasp of my crocodile leather handbag instinctively.

The handbag was a gift from Ethan on my birthday last year. But it pressed painfully into my palm at that moment.

I was Cecelia Wood, and my husband was a superstar, Ethan Wood.

In the past five years, I'd lived under the envious gaze of everyone.

We lived in a penthouse overlooking the Anderson River, which flowed across Preayork. I had various haute couture dresses in my wardrobe and always attended events with well-known figures. My husband was the dream of countless women.

But only I knew that my seemingly perfect life was already like a tapestry eaten by moths, filled with filth.

"Doctor, how much longer can non-invasive treatment options extend my life?" I forced myself to stay calm, but my voice trembled uncontrollably.

I hadn't seen the Northern Lights.

I hadn't reopened the small gallery my mother left behind. How could I die just like that?

"At most three months." The doctor's words cut through my nerves like a dull knife.

I clutched the diagnosis and left the doctor's office.

The hallway was filled with the cold, acrid smell of disinfectant.

Just as I reached the hospital gate, my phone suddenly vibrated. It displayed an unfamiliar number from the Preayork Post.

I frowned and answered the call.

Why would a gossip outlet, usually fixated on Ethan's schedule, suddenly call me?

"Is that Mrs. Cecelia Wood? I'm Domenic Spencer from the Preayork Post."

The voice on the other end sounded hurried and excited.

"We just received firsthand breaking news from Miss Lilian Foster, Ethan Wood's agent. She provided a lot of evidence that she had been having an affair with Ethan for a long time. I also have videos of Ethan and Ethan, who were intimate at the Beverly Hills villa, along with bank transfer records from Ethan to Lilian. Can you comment on this?"

"What?" I thought I had misheard. My steps halted abruptly, and the diagnosis slipped from my grasp unexpectedly.

Lilian Foster?

Did the woman, who was always in a sharp suit and called me "Mrs. Wood" and promised to take good care of Ethan's work, have an affair with Ethan?

She had offered the evidence of her affair with Ethan to the media?

"Mrs. Wood, are you still there? Lilian said she could no longer endure being a secret lover and wanted a proper identity. So she decided to reveal everything." Domenic continued, "The video has been sent to your email. Mrs. Wood, are you willing to pay fifty million dollars to buy it out?"

With trembling fingers, I clicked open my email.

The Preayork Post's forwarded email prominently displayed photos of Ethan and Lilian, with a glaring headline.

"Superstar Ethan Wood's affair with his agent was exposed. She claims he has promised to divorce and marry her."

I played the video. Ethan held Ethan in his arms, and he smiled so tenderly. I had never seen him so tender before.

The attached bank statements chilled me to the core. Over the past year, Ethan had transferred eighty-two million dollars to Ethan. But he had told me last month that his recent investments had been poor and that we needed to cut back on expenses at home.

I remembered Ethan coming home late last week. He smelled of a distinctive fragrance I had never used. He told me that he got it from the props from the shooting place.

I remembered the slight disdain in Lilian's eyes when she saw me wearing a pearl necklace. She was visiting our home to deliver documents back then.

The necklace was my mother's heirloom. Lilian likely thought that I was a mere homemaker and was unworthy of Ethan.

The wind swept up the diagnosis from the ground, and its edges curled as it fluttered.

I bent down to pick it up. When my fingers brushed against the words "malignant tumor," I suddenly laughed.

How absurd it was! It was an hour after I was diagnosed with a brain tumor that Ethan publicly cheated with Lilian.

"I won't," I said to Domenic through gritted teeth.

He was stunned on the other end of the line. Then he said, "If that's your stance, I'll have to upload the video to Instagram for public discussion..."

"Go ahead. Ethan and I have nothing to do with each other."

Not a second after hanging up, my phone rang again.

This time, it was Ethan calling.

I took a deep breath and answered it. I sounded calm enough to surprise even myself. "Ethan, let's talk."

On the other end, Ethan was clearly flustered. He said anxiously, "Cecelia, listen to me. It's not what you think. Lilian has gone mad. She's deliberately framing me..."

"Framing you?" I interrupted him and looked at the flickering billboards on a distant skyscraper. "In the Beverly Hills villa, you were so intimate. You have transferred her eighty-two million dollars. And you held her in your arms so tenderly in the video. Did she frame you with that? Ethan, how long will you keep lying to me?"

He was silent, and I only heard the static of the line.

I knew he had nothing to say.

"I'll meet you at the downtown law firm in an hour."