The dog of my husband's true love was sick, just like me—but only one of us could be saved.

To my despair, he had a plane returning from abroad turn around, all for that dog to get better treatment.

My own husband didn't care at all that the same flight was carrying the kidney I desperately needed to live.

Clutching the notice saying I was in critical condition, my body cold and breath shallow, I begged Thatcher through tears to save me.

But all I got was a punishment.

"Veronica's dog is sick. Do you even know how upset she is? And you? Pretending to be sick for what—attention? Give me a break, Jasmine. Veronica already told me you just got a cold!"

"How about I make you suffer for real for a few days so you can quit messing with me, huh?"

Next thing I knew, his men ripped out all the medical equipment keeping me alive, dragged me out of the hospital bed, and threw me into the hills in an unfamiliar suburb.

Up there, Veronica carved up my face with a knife so deep I lost so much blood and died. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, she chopped my body into thousands of pieces.

Then she innocently ran back into my husband's arms, crying.

"Thatcher, Jasmine's gone... I think she resented you for teaching her a lesson, so she ran away..." she lied straight through her teeth.

Thatcher got instantly so mad, he took it out on my family.

All of a sudden, my parents' company went bankrupt, leading both Mom and Dad to jump off a building to end their lives. My younger sister, fresh out of college, suffered the same fate—tortured to death.

It wasn't until five years after I was murdered that a sanitation worker discovered a bone that looked like a finger in a sewage pit.

I floated there, watching my own bones crawl with maggots and filth, the stench unbearable.

Even knowing it was my own dismembered body, I couldn't help but turn away and gag.

It didn't look like me at all; I had always prided myself on my beauty.

Even when I was sick, I always made sure to dress up so Thatcher could see me at my best. I'd even sleep in full makeup.

Maybe that's why Veronica dumped me in the sewage pit, leaving my remains in such gross.

The worker gawked at the severed finger, his shovel slipping from his grip as he fell to the ground, shaking.

"Good grief! T-That... That's gotta be a human finger! Oh, god! Who knows what else is in here!"

The alarming voice caught Thatcher's attention as he was visiting the construction site for inspection.

He walked over to the pit, his expression shifting as he saw my finger.

"If that really belongs to a person, somebody dumped the body like this. We're looking at a murder case!"

"What are you waiting for? Call 911!"

I was stunned, staring at my husband.

Time seemed to favor him; five years had gone by, and he still looked as cold and regal as when we were still together.

But the kiss mark on his neck shattered his cold aura, revealing his new reality without me.

After drifting through this world alone like a lost soul for five long years, my heart felt numb.

Yet, at this moment, a familiar ache pierced my chest.

It reminded me of when I was still alive. He constantly ditched me to be with his first love, missing our anniversaries while feeding me nothing but lies.

The sensation was hauntingly similar.

It hit me hard.

The man I had selfishly loved and my murderer—they've been living happily together since I was gone.

Just then, a shrill ringtone cut through my thoughts.

Thatcher pulled out his phone. The moment he saw the caller ID, the blank expression on his face melted away, replaced by a sweet smile.

He had never smiled at me like that.

I used to playfully tease him for always looking serious and cold.

But he would just scold me, calling me unreasonable as if he had to control every expression on his face.

Now, I have to face the truth.

It wasn't that I was too sensitive.

My husband simply didn't love me.

Not enough to even give me a smile.

When Thatcher answered the call, his tone was surprisingly soft and tender, full of the affection he never showed me.

"Babe, we've got a little problem here. I might not be home in another hour."

"Your cold's finally getting better, but stay home, okay? Don't set the AC too low, and avoid cold drinks for a while..."

Listening to him nagging like a mother was surprising and felt bitter.

Was he the same man who only told me to drink more warm water when I was literally in the ICU?

After nearly 15 minutes of meticulous reminders, he reluctantly ended the call.

The overwhelming stench of my remains and the feces made him cover his nose and take a few steps back.

Soon, the cops arrived, quickly entering the site to recover my body from the pit.

"The bones have oxidized and blackened, and the muscle tissue has decomposed. These bones have been here for years. Five, at least," the forensic investigator reported.

He continued, "The body's destroyed. We're gonna need DNA tests to ID this poor soul."

A trace of astonishment crossed Thatcher's face.

"Whoever did this was a devil," he murmured.

Suddenly, one of the cops exclaimed, "Officer, there's a ring on this severed finger!"

At those words, tears suddenly flooded my eyes, and a flicker of hope ignited my heart.

Thatcher, my husband... would he recognize me?

That's the engagement ring he gave me!

Unfortunately, I overestimated my husband.

He didn't recognize the engagement ring.

Of course; it was Valentine's Day when he tossed it to me after I annoyed him about it—just a cheap ring from a dollar store.

He probably didn't even glance at it when he bought it.

Yet, even if it wasn't worth much, it was still the first gift he ever gave me.

I wiped it clean every day like crazy, carefully wearing it, unwilling to take it off for even a second.

Suddenly, Thatcher walked over to the cops, and after getting their permission, he picked up the ring with tweezers for a closer look.

"This isn't gold; it's made of iron," he stated. "My wife loves jewelry, and I've studied various metals—I wouldn't mistake that."

I looked at him for a second, my brows knitting together.

On my birthday, I dressed up beautifully, wearing a family heirloom diamond bracelet.

But he called me a vase—pretty but useless.

After that day, to please him, I suppressed my desire to adorn myself and never wore jewelry again.

So why was he saying his wife loved jewelry?

Then it hit me.

Right, he was talking about his first love—Veronica Pendleton.

In his eyes, I was probably just a hindrance to their love story.

"The victim probably had poor financial means," he suggested.

That suddenly made me laugh in disbelief. But then an overwhelming pain consumed me, and tears streamed down my face.

Damn, he's hilarious!

Thatcher Cunningham was the richest man in Oakridge City, sitting on billions.

Yet he only gave me a two-dollar engagement ring!

I guess, to him, I was only worth two bucks…

Oh! No, it's not even worth two bucks.

I had to practically beg him to give me that ring.

Just then, the police dug up some new evidence.

"We've collected fragments of kidney tissue from the victim, suggesting severe kidney disease."

Thatcher's assistant looked surprised and asked, "Isn't Jasmine suffering from kidney issues? And she's been missing for five years, right?"

Hearing my name sent a jolt through me, and I couldn't help but turn to Thatcher.

My heart raced with tension and a glimmer of anticipation.

"We were married for five years. Did you really not have a single assistant who cared about me?" I cried.

But he just wore a face full of disgust.

"Don't mention that bitch to me! Her parents and sister died because of her, and she had the nerve to travel the world without apologizing to Veronica! Just hearing that shameless woman's name makes me sick!"

W-What? Mom and Dad... and my sister... Are they all dead? No, they were perfectly healthy...

Could it be that... Thatcher pushed them to their deaths just to get to me?!

A wave of shock instantly crashed over me, and an unusually sharp voice drifted out of my throat.

I charged at Thatcher, grabbing his shoulders, and demanding answers.

But the moment I reached him, my hands went right through his body, like I was grabbing at thin air.

His company had been on the brink once, and it was my parents who sold off their own company's assets to bail him out.

My younger sister had just graduated from a prestigious university, ready to take on the world.

So, was it just his first love that mattered?

Were my life and my family's lives worth nothing to him?

The realization made my blood feel like it was freezing.

How could I have been so blind to fall for such a son of a bitch!

Because of me, my poor family paid the price!

Just then, Thatcher instructed his assistant.

"I have nothing to do with the victim. I gotta go. You can stay here with them."

His voice sounded devoid of any emotion.

He treated his stuff and me the same way.

But whenever Veronica came up, some kind of softness would creep into his eyes, completely at odds with his blank face—like spring breaking through winter's chill.

"Veronica still got cold," he explained, excusing himself. "I need to go home early today to accompany her."

I followed Thatcher back to the villa.

Veronica threw herself into his arms as soon as he opened the door, acting dramatically and clingy.

"Babe, those were the worst three hours of my life! I missed you so much!" she sulked.

She looked like something straight out of a fairy tale, with her pearl hair clip and that perfect miniskirt.

Meanwhile, I was stuck looking like a wreck—sick and haggard.

No wonder Thatcher said once that I didn't even measure up to a single hair on Veronica's head.

Out of nowhere, he bent down, scooped up a clump of fur from the floor, and tossed it in the trash.

"Damn that woman for calling me five years ago and screwing up Bailey's treatment!"

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, sharp and brutal.

It stung so bad that I had to face it.

My blinded love for him was damn hilarious.

I was a wealthy young woman, reduced to a live-in maid, dragging my sick self around, cooking and cleaning just for him to have nothing else to focus on but work.

But no matter how low I sank, I was still worth less than Veronica's dog in his eyes!

She giggled, her smile bright like some kind of sunshine.

"You know, I don't blame Jasmine. She loves you too much. No wonder she can't even stand Bailey!"

Shaking her head, she ripped open a bag of chips and held them out to Thatcher like she was offering him the world.

"Don't stress yourself, babe. Come on, have some, and cheer up!"

He took a piece, grinning like an idiot.

"Junk food isn't good for you. You should eat less of it, hmm?"

I sat in the corner of the room, hugging my knees while quietly watching my husband and my murderer embrace each other.

It brought back that time I was snacking on some chips at home, and Thatcher caught me.

He snatched the bag right out of my hands and flung it to the ground. He crushed it with one shoe and stormed out like I'd committed a crime.

I never really understood why he got so mad.

But out of habit, I apologized to him everywhere I could—text, social media, everything.

But he ignored all of it.

Back then, I relapsed and the pain was unbearable.

With the last bit of strength, I called him for help.

But he just hung up on me.

In the end, it was my sister who came by to hang out and found me lying on the floor, and she rushed me to the hospital.

When I was conscious again, something in me died.

Thatcher didn't love me, so why was I trying so hard?

It wasn't good for either of us.

That's when I changed my number and sent him a text.

[Hey, it's Jasmine. Let's get divorced.]

Who knew that half an hour later, Thatcher would show up by my hospital bed?

He looked completely different from his usual self and even handed me a champagne-colored rose.

When he spoke, his voice was filled with guilt.

"Hey, I'm sorry. Look, I just got mad when I caught you eating junk food because you weren't paying attention to your health."

"And I've been so caught up with work these days. I didn't mean to ignore your messages."

Maybe because he had never treated me like a wife before, so I forgave him just like that.

One flower, one apology, and I thought he really regretted what he did.

But a few days later, I happened to see a video Veronica posted on Facebook.

It turned out that Thatcher got mad at me for snacking on chips because his first love made an official announcement online.

And all those days he wasn't replying to my messages? He was actually traveling with her.

His sudden apology? It was because he found out that Veronica only posted the video as part of a dare she lost.

Once he was in a better mood, he threw me a smile like it was a reward.

And the rose he gave me, which I'd been putting in my hair every day?

It was just one out of a thousand roses he gave Veronica. It was the ugliest one she chose to toss aside.

"I wonder where that bitch is off messing around."

Thatcher's sigh snapped me back to the present.

Veronica's face quickly went stiff.

"Babe, do you care about her that much?"

Thatcher held her gently, but the words that came out of his mouth were sharp as a knife.

"Nah, the only woman I care about is you, babe. I just want that bitch to apologize to Bailey."

My beloved husband making me apologize to his mistress' dog—isn't that insane?

God! Could anything else be more hilarious than this?

I laughed so hard that tears came out of my eyes.

But right after that, despair and pain swept over my whole body over and over again.

And the worst part? This pair of scumbags kept playing out their little love story in front of me!

Oh, how I wish I could just kill them!

Choke them, stab them—I didn't even care how!

But every time I reached for them, I just passed right through. Nothing. They were happy, completely uninterrupted.

They were just hugging each other quietly until Veronica let out a sigh and slipped back into her sweet facade.

"I won't really hold it against her for giving Bailey that skin condition. In fact, if she comes back, I'm willing to get along with her, you know," she said.

Thatcher stroked her hair, so gently it almost seemed like it could drip sweetness.

"Oh, babe, you're really so understanding," Thatcher remarked. "But if I were you, I won't even blink if that bitch gets torn into pieces out there."

Then suddenly, a phone rang, cutting through their disgusting little scene.

"Mr. Cunningham," his assistant called, "the cops found a heart-shaped pearl hair clip in the sewage pit."

"I remember Jasmine wore something like that every time she brought you lunch to the company, didn't she?"