The Don's Discarded Wife

In my third year of marriage to Cassius, I saw his childhood sweetheart Serena post a photo on a luxury yacht with the caption: "My man always knows what I want."

That yacht was supposed to be my birthday gift.

I called the dealer. "Mr. Vitale transferred it to Miss Monte."

Cassius called immediately. "Stop checking up on me. I owed her this. Why are you so insecure?"

That night, he kicked my medication across the floor. "Stop reminding everyone I owe you my life."

Three years ago, I gave him my gas mask during a shootout. The toxins destroyed my lungs.

When he burned my face with an iron, he drove me to the hospital—until Serena called crying about a burst pipe.

He shoved me out into the pouring rain. "You're not going to die. She needs me more."

For the first time in three years, I realized I should stop saving a man who'd already chosen someone else.

......

I sat in the living room of the Vitale estate, the old injury in my lungs feeling like a red-hot iron bar lodged in my chest.

Cassius walked in. His gaze immediately locked onto the pills in my hand, his eyes darkening instantly.

"Taking pills again?"

He kicked the glass and pill bottle out of my hand.

"Every time I come home, you're popping pills. Are you trying to remind me that you got hurt because of me? Or do you want everyone to know that the Don of the Vitale family owes his wife his life?"

Three years ago, during a shootout, I had given him my gas mask, and the toxins I inhaled caused irreversible malignant lesions in my lungs.

The doctor had warned me that severe emotional stress would accelerate the terminal fibrosis.

Yet, ever since Serena came back, my emotions had been constantly fluctuating. Each spike of anger, each wave of despair, was another nail in my coffin.

Cassius sneered and pulled an old keychain from his pocket, tossing it in front of me.

A small photo dangled from it—him and a woman, heads together, smiling brightly like any couple in love.

Serena Monte. His first love. His childhood sweetheart.

"Serena sent this for you. You're the one in the wrong, yet she told me she hopes you'll forgive her. Look how kind she is. And you? What can you do besides sulk?"

"I don't need it." I walked toward the side cabinet where the iron and several shirts that needed pressing were kept.

But my avoidance was like a match, instantly igniting his rage.

"What's your problem? She sends you something and you won't even look at it? Are you really this petty, this narrow-minded?"

"Let go—"

During the struggle, the iron slipped from its stand. I instinctively turned my head, but the scalding metal still scraped across my right cheek.

I let out a muffled groan, clutching my face.

What my fingers touched wasn't smooth skin, but a piece of charred, wet flesh. Blood and fluid from the burn seeped through my fingers, dripping down in a horrifying sight.

Cassius froze.

The hand gripping my wrist finally released, a flash of panic crossing his eyes. "I... I didn't mean to. We need to go to the hospital. I'll take you."

I sat in the passenger seat.

The silence in the car was like a wall.

When I looked down, I noticed a black lace thong wedged in the gap of the passenger seat—a delicate strappy style, clearly not my size, nor something I would ever choose.

It was Serena's.

I stared at the underwear.

Cassius followed my gaze, his face changing color instantly.

He hurriedly reached over, yanked out the underwear and threw it into the back seat. "Look... Serena was in my car before, she left something behind. Don't make a big deal out of it."

His tone shifted rapidly from guilty to defensively harsh. "Don't try to use this against me. I've explained this to you. She's just someone from my past. You're the one I married."

I turned my gaze to the window outside.

"It's fine. Just get to the hospital quickly. My face hurts."

I didn't fight. I didn't make a scene. I didn't question him.

In the past, whenever Serena tried to mark her territory through lipstick stains on Cassius's collar, earrings left in the passenger seat, or scarves tucked in the back seat, I would be enraged and disgustedly erase every trace.

But now? My heart felt only dead silence. I didn't care about anything anymore.

Cassius opened his mouth, clearly caught off guard by my reaction. He said nothing more, stepped on the gas, and headed straight for the hospital.

Cassius's phone rang.

He answered. I heard a tearful female voice on the other end.

"Cass... the water pipe burst at home. The living room is flooded. I'm all alone, I'm so scared... can you come over?"

Cassius's voice instantly became soft and urgent, a tone I'd never heard before. "Don't be scared, I'll be right there. Go upstairs and stay there, don't touch the water."

He hung up and slammed on the brakes.

"Get out. Take a cab to the hospital yourself. Serena has an emergency."

I looked at him in disbelief.

Outside, rain poured down. The surroundings were empty roads, the nearest building several hundred meters away.

"There are no cabs here..." My voice held a hint of pleading. "Just drop me at the hospital first, then go to her. It won't take long."

"Can you stop being so selfish? She's alone at home with the whole house flooded! Do you know how scared she must be? You just got a burn on your face, you're not going to die!"

With that, he grabbed my arm and pushed me out of the car.

I stumbled and fell into the roadside puddle.

With the roar of the engine, the black sedan sped away, its taillights quickly disappearing into the curtain of rain.

I pushed myself up from the ground.

A tearing pain shot through my lungs. I bent over, coughing violently, the saliva I coughed up streaked with blood.

I don't know how long I walked before I sat in the examination room, soaking wet.

The attending physician examined the wound, his expression grave.

"The burn is severe—third-degree. Combined with the infection from rain exposure, it will leave permanent scarring."

The doctor paused. "Ma'am, what's more serious than the burn is that your old lung injury has deteriorated into end-stage pulmonary fibrosis."

My fingers unconsciously tightened around the hem of my clothes. "How long do I have?"

"Without further treatment... possibly less than a year." He pulled out a business card and slid it across the desk. "But if you can get to Germany—Heidelberg University Hospital—there might still be a chance."