Chapter 1

Eight months after my terminal cancer diagnosis, I found a secret will in my wife’s study safe.

According to the document, all of her shares, properties, ten private jets, and five private islands would be unconditionally transferred to Tristan Miller upon her death.

Tristan was the scholarship student she had been financially sponsoring for years.

Before we got married, Victoria was convinced I was only after her family's fortune. She forced a brutal prenuptial agreement on me.

At the time, her face was expressionless as she said, "You’re marrying me, Julian, not my empire. It’s better to keep our assets separate."

Throughout our seven-year marriage, she guarded her wealth from me like I was a thief.

Even after I was diagnosed with advanced stomach cancer and became too weak to work, she never contributed a single penny to our household expenses.

"Who allowed you to touch my safe?"

Victoria’s voice icy, her brow furrowed with pure rage as she stood at the study door.

My voice was barely a whisper. "The password is Tristan’s birthday."

She snatched the papers from my hand, quickly reset the password on the digital lock, and locked it away.

"It’s just a password. Can you stop making a scene?"

When I brought up divorce, she didn't even take me seriously. She simply locked the study door and told me to get out.

She warned me never to touch her things again.

I slowly nodded. I turned around and immediately booked an appointment with a divorce lawyer.

I wouldn't touch her things ever again.

And this marriage? I didn't want it anymore either.

***

Clutching my aching lower abdomen, I walked into a familiar law firm.

Mr. Henderson handed me a glass of warm water.

"Mr. Vance, you really don't have to leave with absolutely nothing."

"You are gravely ill. Under the law, you are fully entitled to a portion of the marital assets."

The steam from the cup blurred my vision, making my eyes sting.

What marital assets?

Before our wedding, Victoria Sterling had put every single asset she owned into a trust.

Every dollar she earned after our marriage was held by her financial managers.

It never even touched her personal bank account.

On the very day we got married, she told me straight to my face:

She would never split the empire she had worked so hard to build just because of a marriage certificate.

Back then, I thought she was just bitter because her father had forced her into the marriage.

I understood how difficult her life had been, fighting for her place in the Sterling family.

Besides, as her husband, I felt it was my responsibility to support us, even if she was the billionaire CEO.

So, I asked for nothing. I even signed a document voluntarily waiving my rights to her estate.

It wasn't until I saw that will that I realized the truth.

The things she refused to share with me...

She had planned all along to legally hand them over to someone else.

She wasn't against the idea of sharing her life and wealth; she just wished her groom had been someone else.

I took a sip of the warm water, my voice raspy and strained.

"No need, Mr. Henderson. I don't want her money. I just want a divorce."

As he drafted the paperwork, my hands wouldn't stop shaking.

It wasn't just heartbreak. It was fury.

Seven years of marriage, and she had played me for a fool the entire time.

She was willing to leave her entire empire to Tristan.

Yet, in all these years, the only gift she had ever given me was a fifty-dollar secondhand watch.

And when I was screaming in agony in a hospital bed, breaking down from the stomach cancer...

She was on a luxury yacht, celebrating Tristan's birthday.

The most tragic part of it all?

She had forced me to personally design their outfits.

Two months ago, Victoria had brought me a set of measurements.

She forced me, while I was extremely weak and recovering from a brutal round of chemo, to sit up and sketch.

She had said casually, "A close friend of mine is getting married. Design the groom’s suit to your highest standard."

The bride’s measurements were an exact match for Victoria's.

And on the inner lining of the groom's suit, I had embroidered the initials 'T.M.'—Tristan Miller.

Mr. Henderson handed me the divorce agreement and pleaded, "Mr. Vance, at least keep the money you earned yourself. Don't just hand it over..."

I let out a bitter laugh.

Over the years, Victoria had never given me a single cent.

Every bill, every grocery run, every mortgage payment on our daily life had been paid for by my freelance design commissions.

To her, I was probably just cheap labor.

She didn't have to spend a dime, and I willingly drained my bank account to take care of her.

When I finally got back to the cold mansion to sign the papers, my stomach flared with agonizing pain.

I collapsed on the floor, clutching my stomach, nearly blacking out from the sheer physical and emotional torture.

Silent tears streamed down my face.

***