Diagnosed with terminal cancer, I was given three months to live. My husband didn't even wait for me to di//e before moving his pregnant mistress into our guest room

The days melted away like wax near a flame.

By day eighty-five, the atmosphere in the estate was electric with arrogant anticipation.

Richard and Sienna were practically floating through the halls. They had ordered three million dollars worth of luxury cars, which were currently parked in the driveway—a brand-new Rolls-Royce Phantom for Richard and a custom pink Bentley for Sienna. They had paid for them using high-interest bridge loans secured against the expected IPO of Sterling Logistics.

They believed they were hours away from total victory.

Upstairs in the master suite, Sienna was busy trying on custom diamond tiaras for the IPO gala at the Ritz-Carlton.

Downstairs, I was sitting at my desk, reviewing the final legal traps with Arthur Pendelton via encrypted video link.

"Let's review the trap once more, Arthur," I said, sipping a green smoothie.

"With pleasure, Victoria," Arthur smiled warmly on the screen. "First: Richard has executed three hundred million dollars in personal bridge loans from private equity groups, using his 'guaranteed' fifty-one percent stock in Sterling Logistics as collateral. But because Vance Holdings owns that fifty-one percent, and Vance Holdings is one hundred percent your personal property, those loans are legally fraudulent."

"Second?"

"Second: The moment you present your clean bill of health to the Chancery Court on Day ninety, every power of attorney Richard claimed to hold becomes retroactively null and void. Every contract he signed in your name over the last ninety days becomes a federal felony of corporate forgery."

"And third?" I asked, a dark glint in my eye.

"Third: The Ritz-Carlton event," Arthur chuckled. "Richard has invited the Wall Street Journal, Bloomberg, CNBC, and two hundred major venture capitalists. He thinks he is presenting the triumph of his career. Instead, he will be standing on a live television broadcast when the federal marshals serve the asset seizure warrants."

"What about Sienna’s brother?"

"The eighty million dollars he helped Richard siphon into the Cayman accounts?" Arthur sneered. "Interception completed yesterday. We worked with the Cayman Monetary Authority under the Emergency Fraud Act. The funds have been fully recovered and transferred back into your personal private account."

I leaned back in my chair, feeling a deep, intoxicating sense of calm.

Everything was in place. Every line of code, every legal clause, every financial wire had been orchestrated with surgical precision.

Suddenly, the door to my guest room was unbolted.

I instantly slumped into my chair, letting my arms hang limp, my face dropping into an expression of utter defeat.

Richard walked in, wearing a tuxedo for a pre-IPO dinner party. He held a glass of champagne in one hand and a gold pen in the other.

"Day eighty-nine, Victoria," Richard smiled, his tone dripping with fake sympathy. "Tomorrow is the big day. The doctors said you won't last past midnight. Look at you... you can barely keep your head up."

I let out a weak, raspy cough. "Richard... please... give me water..."

"No water until you sign," Richard said, setting the golden pen on the desk beside my hand. "Just make one mark on the paper. Save yourself the final hours of agony."

I looked up at him through my eyelashes, pretending to struggle for breath. "If I sign... will you... stay with me... when I die?"

Richard let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "Stay with you? Victoria, the moment you sign that, Sienna and I are heading to the Ritz-Carlton suite to celebrate. I won't even be here to watch them roll your body into the hearse."

I looked at the golden pen. I slowly reached out my hand, hovered over it for a second, and then pulled back.

"No," I whispered softly, letting a tiny, cold smile touch my lips beneath the makeup. "I think... I'll wait for tomorrow."

Richard’s smile vanished, replaced by an expression of pure irritation. "Stubborn to the very last second. It doesn't matter. Tomorrow at noon, the court declares you legally incapacitated anyway. Enjoy your last night on Earth, Victoria."

He turned, walked out, and slammed the door.

I sat up straight, wiped the pale powder from my face with a damp towel, and stood up smoothly. I walked over to the closet, where a garment bag hung under a protective cover.

I unzipped the bag.

Inside hung an exquisite, custom-tailored emerald green silk gown designed by Roland Mouret—sharp, vibrant, and commanding. Beside it sat a pair of four-inch Christian Louboutin heels and a sparkling diamond necklace—my father’s original legacy piece, retrieved from my private vault three days prior.