The day I went bankrupt, he coughed up blood.
The arbitration agreement was issued, with a debt of 4.87 Million, and the industry was banned. When I got home, I saw Shen Yan lying next to the sink, and the water in the sink was dazzling red. He smiled and wiped his mouth: "The weather is dry and my throat feels uncomfortable." But I found the diagnosis report of mid-stage lung cancer on his computer.
Overnight, I made a decision.
I hired a man to act, dyed a strange perfume on my body, and slapped the divorce agreement in front of him: "Shen Yan, I have fallen in love with someone else. He can solve all my troubles - you can clean up and leave the house."
He signed silently, his handwriting trembling into ruins. On the day he moved out, he only took his toolbox with him. My friend who was playing the role of "new love" couldn't stand it: "Weiwei, why bother?" I closed the door and sat down on the floor. Why bother? Because I know that he doesn't even have enough money in his account for the next phase of targeted drugs. Because the creditor's call had already reached his hospital.
I worked three jobs, lived in a basement, and anonymously transferred money to his hospital account. Until the doctor told me: "Mr. Shen insisted on returning the remittance. He said... You can't use 'that person's' money, it's dirty."
The divorce drama I directed finally made him hate me. Until he was critically ill and entered the ICU, the "lover" I hired broke down and shouted the truth: "There is no one else! She owes millions! She is afraid of dragging you down!"
The monitor screamed. Shen Yan was on the hospital bed, holding my hand with all his strength, tears burning.
"Lin Wei," his voice was as hoarse as sandpaper, "your 'protection' is ten thousand times more uncomfortable than chemotherapy."
"Divorce is the last protection I can think of for you."
