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

Day 90 arrived with a sky of brilliant, cloudless blue over Dallas.

At 8:00 AM, the mansion was a whirlwind of activity. Caterers, makeup artists, and stylists swarmed the upper floors, preparing Sienna for her grand public debut as the new first lady of Sterling Logistics.

Downstairs in the slate-gray guest room, absolute silence reigned.

Richard had instructed the staff not to check on me. "If she’s dead, leave her there until after the gala," he had ordered the housekeeper. "We don't need paramedics ruining the media photos out front."

At 10:30 AM, two sleek black Escalades pulled into the driveway to transport Richard, Sienna, and their entourage to the Ritz-Carlton Grand Ballroom.

Upstairs, Richard stood before the full-length mirror in his master suite, adjusting his silk bowtie. He looked at his reflection—a man at the absolute pinnacle of corporate power and wealth.

Sienna stepped out of the dressing room wearing a sweeping white lace gown that looked like a wedding dress, her diamond tiara sparkling under the chandelier light.

"How do I look?" she asked, glowing with arrogant pride.

"Like a billion dollars, my love," Richard smiled, kissing her forehead. "And by 1:00 PM today, that won't just be a figure of speech."

"Did you check on the corpse downstairs?" Sienna asked casually, putting on her silk gloves.

"No need," Richard sneered. "The hospice monitor stopped chiming at 6:00 AM. She's gone. We'll have the city mortuary pick her up tonight after we sign the IPO documents."

"Good riddance," Sienna laughed. "Let's go take what's ours."

They swept down the grand staircase, stepping into the waiting limousines, completely unaware that inside the slate-gray room below, the "corpse" was standing before a full-length mirror, putting the finishing touches on her makeup.

I looked at my reflection.

My skin was glowing, radiant, and full of health. My dark hair was styled in elegant, sweeping waves over my shoulders. The emerald-green dress fitted my toned physique flawlessly, its color a striking contrast to the pale ghost I had played for ninety days.

On the table beside me lay two black leather folders.

The first contained my clean, certified MRI scan from St. Jude’s Medical Center, stamped with Dr. Thorne’s official seal and a complete affidavit of perfect health.

The second contained the original paper deeds to Vance Holdings, proving beyond any legal doubt that I owned every single building, every stock, and every asset Richard claimed as his own.

My satellite phone chimed.

"Victoria," Arthur’s voice came through. "The Grand Ballroom at the Ritz-Carlton is packed. Three hundred investors, forty news outlets, and sixty corporate board members are in their seats. Richard and Sienna have just taken the main stage."

I picked up my leather folders, slid my feet into the four-inch Louboutins, and stood tall.

"Is Vance ready with the security team?" I asked, my voice ringing clear and strong.

"Standing by at the venue entrances," Arthur confirmed. "The stage is set, Victoria."

I walked out of the slate-gray guest room for the last time. I didn't look back at the dark, cramped space where they had tried to bury me. I walked down the marble hallway, my heels clicking sharply against the floor—a crisp, rhythmic drumbeat of impending doom.

I opened the front door, stepping out into the brilliant morning sunlight. A sleek black Maybach was waiting in the driveway, driven by Vance himself.