Ethan Fletcher, who was worth hundreds of millions of dollars, gave ten million to the female college student he had been sponsoring for two years to fund her art graduation exhibit—but refused to spend even twenty thousand on our son’s medical treatment.

After my son died of severe diarrhea and dehydration in front of me, I was devastated. I handed Ethan a divorce agreement.

When he saw the death certificate attached, he actually smiled.

"I'm sorry, I didn’t think diarrhea could kill someone."

"I know you’re sad, but it’s okay. Lila’s giving birth in three days."

"She’s understanding and grateful. We’ve already agreed—the baby will be raised by you. You can stay Mrs. Fletcher, but on one condition: Lila must be allowed to visit often."

"No need," I smiled faintly. "I just want a divorce."

——

When Ethan refused to help financially, I sold the custom engagement ring he once spent a fortune on—for next to nothing.

I rushed back to the hospital with the money. Down the long hallway, I heard the sharp, rhythmic beeping of a machine. Then a few seconds later, silence fell—as if the world had been muted.

"I’m sorry, Ms. Carter. I’m sorry for your loss..."

"In your son’s case, if the medical fees had been paid a few days earlier, he might’ve been saved."

"Hospital policy is strict. Without payment from the patient or their guardian, we’re not permitted to administer treatment. We did everything we could. I’m truly sorry for your loss..."

I tried to speak, but it felt like a razor blade wrapped in cotton was lodged in my throat—burning and sharp. No words came.

Dragging my numb legs toward the bed, I couldn’t bear to face my son’s lifeless body.

That morning, he had smiled at me from that very bed. He’d called me “Mom.”

The hospital TV, mounted to the sterile white wall, flickered briefly, then resumed its signal.

Ethan’s face appeared on the screen.

He smiled warmly—a man the public believed was always cold and distant—standing behind the sponsored student, greeting guests at her gallery opening.

Some onlookers whispered, not even avoiding the livestreaming bloggers:

"With my years of experience, I’d say Mr. Fletcher and our young art prodigy are more than just sponsor and artist."

"Come on, come on—spill it. Are you two a thing?"

Blushing, Lila looked away, casting affectionate and shy glances at Ethan.

He didn’t deny anything. The smile tugging at his lips said more than enough.

"But isn’t Mr. Fletcher married? He has a five-year-old son. Could it be that he and his wife are divorced and just haven’t announced it yet?"

Awkward silence fell over the room. The one who asked the question melted into the crowd.

In front of the cameras, Lila’s eyes shimmered as she looked up at Ethan.

"Master, why didn’t Madam come to the exhibition? Is she still upset about the last auction?"

"Should I visit her and apologize again?"

Ethan answered without hesitation.

"No need."

"She’s gotten too sensitive. A set of jewelry is just that—jewelry. If she’s going to throw a fit over that and fight with you, she doesn’t deserve another cent. I won’t let you suffer another insult for her."

"It frustrates me to see her take it out on you."

His protective tone only confirmed for the public that our marriage had quietly ended—and made it seem like I was the one to blame for ruining it.

"Mrs. Fletcher must be a very calculating person. It must be exhausting to get along with someone like that. No wonder Mr. Fletcher has moved on."

"Let’s put that aside—don’t they have a child together? If they divorce, what happens to the child? If Mr. Fletcher and Lila keep progressing like this, they’ll definitely get married. Being a stepmother in a wealthy family isn’t easy."

My heart felt like it had been dropped into a frying pan and tossed again and again. I couldn’t tell if the pain came more from sadness or from rage.

The hospital room was freezing. Cold air surged through the vents and pierced into my bones. I shivered and turned toward the family next to us.

"Please raise the temperature a little. My son has more than just diarrhea. He can’t take the cold."

Time passed, but the chill in the air remained. I raised my head in frustration—only to meet the nurse’s horrified eyes.

"Ms. Carter, families aren’t allowed to stay in the morgue for more than fifteen minutes. You’ve been here half the afternoon. You need to go. The director has been asking for the death certificate to be signed. And where’s the boy’s father? He should at least show up now that his son is gone. Please, contact him."

My mind blanked. I stumbled outside.

The paperwork was done in under two hours.

Shivering in the cold wind outside, I dialed the funeral home with a shaking hand.

Then I called Ethan more than thirty times. Every call went unanswered.

Leaning against the tiled wall, I laughed at myself.

Before the end of the workday, the funeral staff arrived to collect my son. I didn’t know how many times I broke down crying during the process.

At the funeral home, the staff placed my son in the cold chamber, then gently suggested I return home and bring his favorite clothes to dress him.

He should go clean.

My son had been just like Ethan—he hated being dirty.

"After the deceased arrives at the funeral home, cremation is typically scheduled within seventy-two hours. But if the family requests it, we can delay to three, five, or seven days. Would you like to delay it?"

I touched my son’s cold, lifeless face.

"Three days."

***

It was already late when I returned home in a daze.

Ethan’s smile faded the moment he saw me.

"Why are you back so late? Is Charlie feeling better? Lila heard he had diarrhea and was so worried—she even had me bring two boxes of anti-diarrhea medicine."

I stepped away from the box and saw the expiration date.

I smiled coldly, tears spilling again.

"Expired meds? Who exactly is she trying to kill?"

Ethan’s face froze. He turned the box away to hide the date, then frowned.

"Lila must’ve made a mistake. Don’t be so harsh. Pregnant women avoid medicine, you know that. She’s just a college student—she doesn’t pay attention to those things."

"And why didn’t you show up at Lila’s exhibition today? I told you days ago how important it was and you just had to create drama today."

He scolded me, as if defending Lila came naturally now—never mind that my eyes were still red.

"Do you even remember why you started sponsoring Lila in the first place?"

Ethan froze. The words died in his throat.

"Forgot, did you?"

"Then do you remember when things started falling apart between you and her?"

I looked at him calmly. "Do you remember what you said to me when I confronted you after your disgusting mistake that night?"

The living room went silent. The faint scent of vetiver in the air dragged both of us back in time.

Lila was a college student Ethan met on a business trip to a rural town two years ago. Her parents were trying to marry her off to the village chief’s son and she cried all the way to the university, begging someone to help. The desperation in her eyes had left a mark on Ethan.

So the billionaire president brought her back, placed her in a top-tier university near our home, bought her a house, gave her a luxury car and handed her a black card for pocket money.

Gradually, Ethan and Lila grew closer and closer—while he drifted further from me and even from our son.

Then one night, after working late, Ethan returned to the wrong house.

When I found out, he dropped to his knees and kept yanking my hand to slap him.

"I’m sorry, Annelise. Blame me. I drank too much that night. I forced her..."

"I swear it was just that once. I won’t see her again. When she graduates, I’ll stop funding her."

Then Lila got pregnant.

I smirked. "Ethan, tell me—if you only slept with her once a year ago, how is she eight months pregnant now?"

"Did medicine advance without me knowing? Can ovulation be delayed by two to four months now?"

"Enough!"

Ethan’s face twisted with anger.

"I’ll explain everything later."

"Where’s Charlie? Why didn’t you bring him back? It’s just diarrhea. Did he really need to stay in the hospital this long?"

The mention of my son sent my heart into a freefall.

I took the folded death certificate and divorce agreement from my bag, dropped onto the foyer bench, completely drained.

"He’s being cremated in three days."

"Take some time off to come with me—and finalize the divorce."

Ethan took the papers and stared at me.

Then, to my disbelief, he actually smiled.

"What timing."

He let the documents slip from his hands. They fluttered to the floor.

"I’m sorry. I didn’t expect diarrhea to be fatal."

"I know you’re sad, but Lila is giving birth in three days."

"She’s thoughtful and grateful. We’ve agreed she’ll hand the baby over to you to raise. You can continue as Mrs. Fletcher. There’s just one condition: Lila wants to visit the child often."

I stared at him in disbelief.

"Ethan Fletcher! Are you even human?!"

My voice rose so loud that it startled Lila awake from the bedroom.

Ethan frowned, annoyed.

"Keep your voice down. Lila’s resting with the baby."

There was a soft clatter.

Ethan turned his head, his eyes cold.

"Feel better now?"

"Next time, don’t joke like that. Who says someone’s dead just like that? Dragging Charlie into your drama? Aren’t you afraid he’ll learn your bad habits?"

So that was it. He didn’t believe the death certificate.

Exhausted, I picked up the divorce agreement, walked to the coffee table and watched him sign it in one cold stroke.