I Fake My Death After Finding Her Secret Will

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. ***With Mr. Henderson’s help, I quickly rented a small, furnished apartment. I didn't care about the layout, the price, or the neighborhood. My only requirement was immediate move-in. By the time I signed the lease and returned to the freezing mansion, it was already evening. The late-stage stomach cancer made even walking a struggle. Still, suppressing the sharp pain, I went into the kitchen and prepared a few dishes. When I finished setting the table, I realized with a pang of self-loathing that every single dish was Victoria’s favorite. Over the years, memorizing her likes and dislikes had become an instinct. I had completely forgotten what I liked. I sat in the chair, hoping we could end this marriage on decent terms. I reheated the food eight times. It wasn't until three in the morning that the front door finally clicked open. The strong scent of expensive cologne hit my nose immediately. It was Tristan’s favorite fragrance. And on her neck, a fresh hickey sat right over a fading one. She was slightly drunk. But when she saw the beautifully arranged, steaming food on the table, her face twisted in annoyance. "What is this, Julian?" she sneered. "Do you honestly think playing the domestic husband is going to make me feel sorry for you?" She brushed past me and headed straight upstairs. She didn't even look at me. As she passed, I noticed something else. The wedding ring I had personally designed for her was gone. There wasn't even a tan line left on her ring finger. "Victoria," I said, my voice quiet and calm. "I left the divorce papers in the study. If everything looks okay, just sign them." She paused on the stairs, turning her head to look down at me with pure disdain. "Julian, are you really trying to divorce me over a piece of paper in my safe?" "I'm not even dead yet." She let out a harsh laugh, completely ignoring my fragile state. She casually lit a cigarette. "Don't forget how you practically begged to marry into my family back then." "Tristan’s health is failing. That will was just a gesture to give him some peace of mind. It’s not even legally binding." She remembered every detail of Tristan's poor health. Yet, she couldn't see how thin and skeletal my own body had become from the cancer. Love and indifference were so clearly defined. But she had forgotten. Ten years ago, when her stepbrother kidnapped her during a family power struggle, I was the one who risked everything to find her. Against my family's warnings, I tracked her down. In that warehouse, I took a knife to the chest for her. In the hospital room, she had held me tight and sobbed, "I will take over the Sterling Group and make sure you have the best life. If I ever betray you, may God strike me down." She did take over the Sterling Group. But the "best life" went to someone else. All I got was a rushed, cheap wedding, a rented suit, and a cold prenup. I smiled, though my eyes burned. "So, do you still remember that you owe me your life?" Victoria’s face turned incredibly cold. After a long silence, she let out a soft, mocking laugh. "It's been ten years, Julian, and you're still holding onto that? You think I owe you?" "How much do you want? Is a million dollars enough to settle the debt?" I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. So, my life was worth exactly a million dollars to her. The last spark of hope in my chest died. I forced myself to remain calm and said softly, "No need, Victoria. I just want us to part ways cleanly." With that, I turned to walk away. Behind me, her furious voice echoed through the empty hall. "Fine! Have it your way!" "Just don't come crawling back to me crying later!" Cry? In this seven-year marriage, I had already cried all my tears for her. ***Before I could even fall asleep, I heard Victoria slamming the front door as she left the house. The divorce papers had been ripped to shreds and tossed into the trash can. I didn't understand. If she didn't love me, why wouldn't she just let me go? Suddenly, my phone buzzed. It was a Snapchat message from Tristan. It was a photo of Victoria holding him tightly in bed. [Julian, why is Vicky being so clingy today? Did you guys have a fight again?] I scrolled up on our chat history. It was filled with photos he had sent me over the months—photos of Victoria drying his hair, cooking for him, and even putting cute, childish stickers on the passenger seat of her sports car. He treated my chat like a diary, dumping every intimate moment he shared with my wife onto me. Another message popped up. It was a picture of Victoria sleeping beside him. She was wearing the silk pajamas I had bought for her. Tristan messaged: [Julian, that will was just Vicky trying to cheer me up. It doesn't have any real legal power. Please don't fight with her because of me.] [But did you know? Vicky started sponsoring me when I was in middle school. That was way before she even met you.] [She told me that the first time she saw you, she noticed your dimples looked exactly like mine.] [I wonder if Vicky’s future baby will inherit those same dimples. She would love that.] That last sentence made my stomach churn violently. A wave of intense nausea hit me, and I rushed to the bathroom to throw up. I clung to the toilet, vomiting until tears ran down my cheeks. Leaning against the sink, I looked at the faint dimples on my pale face in the mirror. My heart, which I thought was already numb, felt like it was being repeatedly stabbed. So that was it. She chose me back then only because she needed to protect the underage Tristan from her family's rivals. I was just the perfect, disposable shield who happened to look a bit like him. My vision blurred. I wiped my face and typed a reply: "You really love picking up trash, don't you? You're a perfect match for the garbage I'm throwing out." The next second, Victoria’s call came through. Months ago, when Tristan had posted an intimate photo with her on Instagram, I had liked the post. She had called me immediately, screaming at me for "harassing" him. Back then, I had desperately tried to explain myself. But now, I blocked her number without a second thought. I blocked Tristan, too. Once I calmed down, I called a moving company. I had very few belongings—just some clothes and my design sketchbooks. I left behind everything else related to her. Including my wedding ring. Before leaving, I took one last look at the luxurious mansion. When I first moved in, I thought it would be the place where we built our happiness. Now I realized it was nothing but a cold, soulless prison. But now, I was free. I packed up, cleaned the small apartment I rented, and by the time I finished, night had fallen. I planted a few small flowers on the balcony. It was a tiny apartment, but it felt incredibly warm and safe. Just as I was about to sleep, my phone rang. It was Victoria’s personal assistant. As soon as I answered, Victoria’s icy voice boomed through the speaker. "Julian, what the hell are you playing at? I’ve told you a thousand times, Tristan is sick." "Your childish behavior is going to trigger his heart condition!" "Come home right now, and I’ll overlook this. Focus on your recovery, and I’ll pay for your treatment." My fingers tightened around the phone. Even now, after I had packed up and left, her very first concern was still Tristan. As for my safety, my health, or my feelings? They didn't even cross her mind. "Julian! Speak to me! Do you hear me?" "Get back here right—" I hung up, blocked the assistant's number, and shut off the phone. I would do exactly as she wanted. I would never trigger Tristan again. And I would never bother them again. ***Before starting my next round of chemotherapy, the doctor ordered a series of scans. As I walked out of the clinic, my entire body felt cold and exhausted. But when I lifted my head, I bumped straight into Victoria. She was wearing a perfectly tailored, incredibly expensive designer suit. She looked as elegant, cold, and powerful as ever. She marched over and grabbed my wrist tightly. "Have you thrown your tantrum long enough?" When I didn't reply, she pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. Her tone softened slightly, but it was still demanding. "The will wasn't notarized, Julian. It’s not legally binding." "Tristan has a congenital heart defect. I only wrote that to give him some security, to wish him well. It was just a gift." What a pathetic, hollow excuse. It was so ridiculous that my eyes filled with tears of disbelief. I asked hoarsely, "To wish him well? You couldn't just buy him a charm? What about me, Victoria? What did I get?" She choked on her words. I forcefully yanked my wrist out of her grip. Years of suppressed agony and humiliation finally boiled over. "Right after we got married, I was hospitalized for stomach bleeding. You ignored my calls, claiming you had to work late. But then Tristan posted photos of you taking him to Paris Fashion Week." "On our anniversary, you told me you were traveling for a business conference. But I saw on his Instagram that you waited in line for three hours to buy him his favorite bubble tea." "Every single time I had an oncology appointment, you were too busy. But you always had time to go to art exhibitions with him, buy him sports cars, and celebrate his birthday." "Even when I was diagnosed with stage four cancer and lay dying, you chose to take him to Disneyland to watch the fireworks. Am I just some kind of joke to you?" Every single memory felt like a knife twisting in my chest. But saying them out loud made me realize the wound had finally scabbed over. Victoria’s expression shattered. For the first time, panic crept into her eyes. "You... you knew all of this?" How tragic. Until this very second, she actually believed she had hidden it perfectly. I forced a smile, though tears ran down my face. "I just chose not to speak up, Victoria. I’m not stupid." "I pretended to be blind because I foolishly kept believing that the Victoria who loved me would eventually come back." My fingernails dug so deep into my palms that they nearly drew blood. My smile widened as I wiped the tears from my face. "I kept lying to myself until I saw that will. Now, I can't do it anymore." A flash of genuine guilt crossed her face. It was the expression I had fantasized about seeing for years. But it was far too late. I looked her dead in the eye. "I have never spent a single dollar of your family's money, and I never will." "If you have even an ounce of humanity left in you, sign the divorce papers." With that, I walked right past her. She reached out to grab my sleeve but stopped herself, not daring to touch me. A week later, Mr. Henderson called to inform me that Victoria was refusing to sign the papers. "Mr. Vance, if you insist on a divorce, we will have to take this to court." "But Mrs. Sterling's legal team has made it clear that if you sue, they will drag this out indefinitely. They have unlimited resources." Mr. Henderson sounded deeply concerned. I knew Victoria could easily do that. And I had nothing. Mr. Henderson warned me that if she wanted to play dirty, the lawsuit could drag on for years. I took a deep breath. "I refuse to spend my final days tied to her. I'll make her sign." ***