Dying As His Gold Digger Wife

"Mrs. Cole, your bone cancer has reached the terminal stage. The tumor has caused irreversible damage to your left leg. We advise immediate amputation, followed by aggressive treatment."

The doctor slid the medical report across the desk, his expression grim.

"And if I don't?" I asked, my eyes glued to the report.

"If you don't, your condition will deteriorate rapidly." The doctor paused. "You still have a fighting chance."

A fighting chance.

The surgical nurses were already waiting outside the door. I picked up my phone and sent a text to my husband, Ethan Cole.

[The doctor says they need to amputate my left leg to give me a chance at controlling the cancer. Do you think I should do it?]

I stared at the screen, waiting for a reply from the man who had once promised to take care of me for the rest of my life.

It wasn't until the nurse came in to prep me for surgery that my phone finally buzzed.

Heart pounding with desperate hope, I looked down.

Instead of a message, a cold, automated bank notification popped up on the screen.

[Transfer Received: $5,000.00]

Staring at that string of numbers, the very last flicker of hope in my heart was thoroughly extinguished.

Ever since our wedding night, when I asked him for four hundred thousand dollars, he had been absolutely convinced I married him for his money.

Claire' POV

Three years ago, on the night of our wedding, I begged Ethan for four hundred thousand dollars.

My father's condition had suddenly turned critical, and he desperately needed an expensive, life-saving surgery. I had absolutely nowhere else to turn.

But in his eyes, my desperate plea was the ultimate, undeniable proof that I was only after his fortune.

From that moment on, no matter how hard I tried to explain, he refused to believe a single word I said.

When I had my miscarriage, the pain was so agonizing I nearly passed out. I called him, begging him to come to the hospital. Instead, he just wired me a massive sum of money and told me to hire an exclusive VIP caretaker myself.

When my father was on his deathbed, I cried and begged him to come see him one last time. Once again, he simply had his assistant deposit money into my account.

Six months ago, I was diagnosed with bone cancer. I was so terrified I couldn't sleep for nights on end. I poured out all my fears and agony to him, even sending him thirty voice messages in a row.

He replied with thirty separate bank transfers. And every single transaction came with the same, blindingly cruel memo: [Is this enough?]

Now, with amputation staring me right in the face, he still couldn't be bothered to ask, "Are you okay?" He was still just trying to buy me off.

I opened Olivia Hart's social media page. She was Ethan's childhood friend and the woman he had almost married.

In her latest photo, Ethan was sitting right beside her, patiently helping her string handmade beads.

She was smiling radiantly, and the comment section was flooded with blessings from their mutual friends, as if they were the true match made in heaven.

I suddenly remembered the sheer hatred in Ethan's voice when he told me that marrying a "gold digger" like me—falling out with his family and tearing up his engagement to Olivia to do so—was the biggest regret of his entire life.

If that was the case, then this time, I wouldn't leave him with any regrets.

I ripped the IV needle out of the back of my hand.

The nurse jumped in shock and immediately rushed over to hold me down. "Mrs. Cole, are you insane? Are you refusing the surgery?"

"I'm not doing it."

"Do you realize what you're saying? Without treatment, you won't last much longer!"

I didn't answer. I just offered a helpless, bitter smile.

The doctor rushed in and spent a long time trying to persuade me. Finally, left with no other choice, he instructed the nurses to take me back to my ward.

As I was wheeled around the corner of the corridor, I heard a nurse whisper to him, "Has her husband really never visited? Not even once?"

The doctor sighed.

"Her father was treated for cancer here too, and he didn't make it either. Every time she comes to the hospital, she's completely alone. Even when she's trembling in agony all night long, she just presses the call button for the nurses herself."

I froze in place, a sudden heat stinging my eyes.

Right before my father passed away, even though he was in too much pain to form a complete sentence, he still gripped my hand tightly and forced a smile.

"Claire, don't be afraid. Dad can still hold on."

But in the end, he died right in my arms.

It was to raise the money for his medical bills that I had opened my mouth to Ethan on our wedding night.

To this day, I still remember the look of utter disappointment and shock in his eyes.

"Am I really just an ATM to you?" he had demanded, his eyes bloodshot. "Everyone warned me. They all said you only approached me for my money."

"But I didn't believe them! I even cut ties with my own family just to marry you! And yet, you couldn't even wait past our wedding night to show your true colors?"

"Ethan, my dad really needs this money for his surgery. I'll find a way to pay you back, I swear..."

"Enough!"

He ripped off his tie, slammed a bank card violently onto the table, and glared at me with ice in his eyes.

"Take it. Drop the act. Isn't this exactly what you wanted?"

He slammed the door and left that night. I waited alone in the living room until four in the morning. When he finally returned, he was dead drunk, being propped up by Olivia.

Later, to scrape together enough for my father's follow-up treatments, I had no choice but to attend networking parties arranged by Ethan's friends. That night at the club, they forced me to drink until my stomach bled. Ethan finally showed up, his face livid, but he didn't offer a single word of comfort.

"You'd do absolutely anything for money, wouldn't you? Just how cheap are you?"

From that moment on, "Gold Digger" became a permanent label etched into my skin. Whenever his friends mocked me, he never once defended me. Sometimes, he even joined in with a cold sneer of his own.

The day my father died, I completely broke down. I called him, sobbing hysterically and rambling incoherently.

He was in a meeting. He just hung up on me.

I sent him countless voice messages. Late that night, I finally received his reply.

It was just another automated bank transfer notification.

I used to think that as long as I kept trying to explain, one day, he would finally believe me.

Now I understood the truth. It's not that some people can't hear your cries for help, it's just that they simply don't care.

After picking up my painkillers from the pharmacy, I went home alone. A dull, throbbing agony radiated from deep within the bone marrow of my left leg, feeling like countless needles piercing through me.

I swallowed the pills, leaned against the side of the bed, and looked up at the massive wedding portrait hanging on the wall.

In the photo, Ethan's smile was so gentle. He was holding my hand tightly, making me a promise:

"Claire, I will treat you well for the rest of my life."

What a ridiculous lie.

Picking up my phone, with trembling fingers, I sent him one final question.

[Ethan, if I died one day, would you even be sad?]