We’d been married for three years, but whenever Song Yan’s first love called, he could leave me in my hospital bed and stay out all night.
I gave up my career for him, learned to cook and care for him, and all I got in return was his scornful remark: “You live off me. What right do you have to make a scene?”
Then I was diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer, with my life ticking down by the day. He put his arm around his first love and said casually, “Her? She’s just faking it for sympathy.”
I smiled as I signed the divorce papers, then turned and leaped from the hospital’s 28th floor.
On the day of my funeral, Song Yan frantically pried open my coffin, only to find it empty.
Meanwhile, I was sitting aboard a private jet worth tens of millions, beside Fu Siheng, Kyoto’s most mysterious billionaire. He gently wiped the tear from the corner of my eye. “Shen Wei, it’s time to make them pay.”
