Chapter 3

The winter wind grew colder, and my health deteriorated further.

Frequent stomach pains, dizziness, coughing up blood—each episode worse than the last.

Once, while washing dishes at the restaurant, everything suddenly went black and I collapsed straight to the floor. Bowls shattered everywhere, shards cutting my arm, blood flowing profusely.

The boss was terrified and wanted to send me to the hospital. I climbed up, waved him off, paid for the broken dishes, and gritted my teeth to continue washing.

Go to the hospital?

One examination would cost several hundred dollars—enough to buy Ethan breakfast for a week, enough to pay half a month's interest.

I couldn't bear to spend it.

During my lunch break, I went to the small clinic in the alley to get stomach medicine from Dr. Miller.

Dr. Miller looked at my pale face and frowned: "Susan, your condition isn't right. This isn't a simple stomach problem. You must go to a major hospital for a comprehensive examination. You can't keep putting it off. Look at yourself—you've lost almost twenty pounds in the past six months, and you're coughing up blood every day. This isn't a small matter."

I clutched the medicine box, smiling: "Dr. Miller, it's fine. I've just been too tired lately. Once I get through this busy period, I'll go for a checkup."

I didn't dare go.

I was afraid they'd find something serious that would cost money, interfere with work, and make Ethan worry.

I kept thinking that once the debt was paid off, once Ethan recovered, everything would be fine.

Back at the rental, I hid the medicine in the deepest part under the bed, not wanting Ethan to see it.

He'd been sighing constantly lately, saying the creditors were pressing hard, saying he was useless. I couldn't let him worry about me too.

That evening during my night shift, Ethan messaged me saying Vivian had introduced him to a job that could make some money, and he'd be going out that night, telling me not to worry.

I replied "Okay, stay safe," then continued working the register, my heart aching for him—things were already so difficult, yet he still had to go around looking for work.

I had no idea that that night, he drove the Porsche parked outside the slums, took Vivian to the top floor of a five-star hotel, ate Western food that cost thousands per person, and opened a bottle of wine I could never afford in my lifetime.

He and Vivian sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking at the city lights below, smiling as they clinked glasses.

Vivian swirled her wine glass, raising an eyebrow: "Ethan, you're such a good actor. Three years, and Susan never suspected a thing. With acting skills like that, it's a shame you didn't go into film."

Ethan took a sip of wine and said casually: "I thought she'd give up and run within six months. Never expected she'd actually stick it out for three years, sell her house, and work five jobs to help me pay off debts. Honestly didn't see that coming."

"Well, of course," Vivian laughed. "We made a bet back then—betting on whether she'd take the money and run when she found out you were bankrupt, whether this gold-digger would leave you. Looks like you won."

Ethan smiled without responding, his eyes showing not a trace of emotion, only the smugness of winning a wager.

He never once considered how much a woman must love someone to sell her own house, work five jobs a day, and exhaust herself day and night, just to help him pay off debts that didn't even exist.

He didn't return to the rental until early morning, carrying the faint scent of alcohol and perfume.

I'd just gotten off my night shift and was making him soup. Smelling it, my heart skipped a beat, but I still didn't think much of it, assuming he'd been drinking with clients and picked up the scent.

I handed him the hangover soup. He took it, hugged me with reddened eyes, and started apologizing again, saying he'd made me suffer.

I stroked his hair, smiling and saying it was fine, my heart still aching for him—having to drink with people to make money, having to endure so much humiliation.

Thinking back now, I was pathetically foolish then.

After he fell asleep, I started coughing violently again. Afraid of waking him, I covered my mouth and ran to the bathroom. I coughed up more blood than last time.

Looking at my deathly pale, emaciated reflection in the mirror, I finally felt afraid.

I took out my phone and secretly made an appointment at the city hospital for the following Monday afternoon.

I thought—just get it checked. If it's nothing, that's best. If there really is something, treat it early so I don't become a burden to Ethan.

I still wanted a future with him. I still wanted to buy a small house with him once the debt was paid off, have a child, and live a stable life together.

Back then, I was still fantasizing about the future, completely unaware that the future I envisioned had been an elaborate scam from the very beginning.

My devotion, my sacrifices, my life—in his eyes, they were nothing more than bargaining chips in a wager.