In my past life, my husband, Ricardo Whitman—a celebrated fintech prodigy on Wall Street—died from what was reported as “sudden anaphylactic shock” after a charity gala. What he left me, aside from a chasm of grief, was a massive two-and-a-half-million-dollar debt.

For the sake of my son, Connor, who was still in high school, I sold my proudest creation—a penthouse loft I had designed myself. I moved into a basement in Brooklyn, working three part-time jobs a day to pay off what were supposedly "investment losses."

The long-term mental stress and overwork took their toll. My body finally gave out, and I succumbed to illness in that squalid rented room. On my deathbed, I overheard my son, by then in college, on a video call. On the other end of the screen was his father, who was supposed to be dead.

In that moment, the truth sliced open my heart like a scalpel. The so-called debt was nothing but a cryptocurrency money-laundering scheme orchestrated by Ricardo and his lover and business partner, Selina Ford. My husband had faked his death to pull a vanishing act.

And my son, Connor, was a knowing accomplice from the very beginning. He watched as my life was drained away, all so he could one day inherit that ill-gotten wealth without any burdens.

With a heart full of burning resentment, I took my last breath.

When I opened my eyes again, I was assaulted by blinding spotlights and the scent of champagne. I was back at the gala, at the very moment Ricardo collapsed into my arms and stopped breathing.

The day my world fell apart.

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1

"Mrs. Sutton, I'm so sorry. Despite our best efforts, your husband, Ricardo Whitman, passed away an hour ago from cardiac arrest induced by severe anaphylactic shock."

Half an hour ago, I was still mingling in the front hall of the charity gala when I received a call from Ricardo's private physician, Dr. Hayes, and rushed to the backstage lounge. The moment I walked in, I was confronted with the news of my husband's death.

My son, Connor Whitman, was already waiting by my side. He looked up at me with red, swollen eyes, his performance worthy of an Oscar.

"Mom, Dad… he's gone."

I stared at the form being wheeled out under a white sheet, then at my grief-stricken son beside me. It felt like a nightmare, absurd yet suffocating.

In my past life, seeing Connor like this would have shattered my heart. I would have pulled him into my arms, tears in my eyes, and whispered, "Don't worry, Connor. I'll take care of everything. I promise, this won't affect your future at all."

But just a few days after Ricardo's death, the so-called "loan sharks" came knocking. It was then that I learned Ricardo owed 2.5 million dollars from aggressive cryptocurrency trading.

Like a fool, I shouldered the entire burden. To avoid any impact on Connor's ongoing college applications, I quietly sold the loft my parents had left me, taking a ridiculously low price for a quick sale. I maxed out all my credit lines and borrowed from every friend I could, barely scraping together enough money to pay off the debt.

Connor was preparing for his SATs, the most critical period of his academic career and also the most expensive. Moreover, he was used to a lavish lifestyle, with his weekly private tutoring, limited-edition sneakers, and the sports car he was always clamoring to modify. My salary from the design firm alone could never support such expenses.

So I took on three part-time jobs, working day and night. I survived on pre-packaged salads and energy bars, but I made sure Connor could drive his sports car and wear the latest designer brands. I even hired a top-tier college admissions consultant for him, who charged hundreds of dollars per hour.

Yet, in the end, as I lay on that bed in the cheap rental, fighting for my life, I overheard a conversation between Connor and a hospice doctor.

"The patient's in critical condition. If we get her to the ER right now, she has a shot. It’s only a thousand dollars for the ambulance. She's a fighter; there's still a chance."

I used every last bit of my strength, struggling to breathe, desperately trying to grasp any hope of survival.

But my son, the boy I had sacrificed everything for, answered in a voice so cold it froze my blood, "There's no need. We don't have the money for that."

Although my eyes were closed, I could hear every word.

Why? We weren't rich, but I'd worked my fingers to the bone for years. I had savings again. Just three days ago, I had given Connor a card with five thousand dollars on it for his graduation trip with friends.

The doctor hesitated, his voice filled with sympathy, and asked again, "Are you sure? We're talking about her life. You could borrow the money from friends to cover it for now."

But my son cut him off, his tone laced with impatience. "A chance to live doesn't mean she will live. Why would I waste a thousand dollars on such a low-return investment?"

The doctor sighed deeply. Without the family's consent, he couldn't force the issue.

And so I was left in that rental, under their so-called "hospice care," which was nothing more than waiting to die.

Until the very last moment of my life, a final burst of energy allowed me to barely open my eyes. Standing by my bed was none other than my son.

As my breathing grew shallow, I saw a flicker of excitement cross his face. He eagerly updated the person on the video call.

"Dad, it's done. She's almost gone. You and Selina can get ready. Time to cash out those coins."

"Also, I bought several life insurance policies in her name. As soon as she dies, we'll get a payout of nearly a million dollars."

I would never mistake the voice on the video call—it was my husband, Ricardo, the man who was supposed to have died years ago. And the "Selina" Connor mentioned was Ricardo's business partner, the woman who always greeted me with a warm smile.

Thinking I was already unconscious, Connor continued, his voice filled with triumph as he discussed their future plans.

"Playing the poor kid in front of Mom these past few years has been killing me. If it weren't for this last million, I'd have been off to Ibiza in my new sports car long ago."

"But I guess she died for a good cause. I've had my eye on that limited-edition Lamborghini for a while now. This will be a nice little bonus to help me get it."

A single tear slid down my cheek as everything became devastatingly clear.

The supposed debt? It was a scam—a trap meticulously set by my husband and his lover to cover their cryptocurrency money-laundering activities with fake investment losses.

And my son, upon whom I had poured all my motherly love, even sacrificing my own life to protect, had been an accomplice from the very beginning. He had watched me burn out like a candle, just to fuel his sports car.

My husband and my son—the two men I had trusted most in the world—had conspired to consume my life, piece by piece.

As I watched Connor’s familiar, Oscar-worthy performance, my heart turned to stone.

Noticing my silence, Connor's sobs stopped abruptly, and he looked up at me.

"Mom?" he called out tentatively.

A nearly mocking smile touched my lips as I strode straight to Ricardo's "corpse." Without a hint of hesitation, I ripped the sheet off him.

The action was so sudden that the nearby Dr. Hayes and his nurse didn't have time to stop me.

My husband lay there, his face pale, but the rise and fall of his breathing were still visible in the dim light. This time, I even caught the faint flutter of his eyelid.

How ridiculous. Such a clumsy performance, and in my past life, I had fallen for it so easily.

Back then, I couldn't even bear to look at Ricardo, afraid I would break down. I was so blinded by grief that I failed to notice the guilt on Dr. Hayes's face.

I scanned the room with a cold, sharp gaze, my eyes locking onto Dr. Hayes.

This private clinic, I'd heard, operated in a gray area. Looking back now, it was obvious that Ricardo had bribed them all to stage this elaborate farce.

"Mom! What are you doing? That's so disrespectful to Dad!" Connor rushed over in a panic, trying to grab me. He wasn't mature enough to hide the flash of fear in his eyes—the fear of a lie about to be exposed.

"Dad is dead," he urged, his voice trembling. "Let him rest in peace. Don't disturb him."

"The dead still have one last purpose to serve," I replied calmly, not yet ready to expose his lie.

Connor froze, startled by my cold tone. This wasn't in the script. I was supposed to faint from grief.

"Mom, what does that mean?" he asked.

I ignored him completely, took out my phone, and dialed the 24-hour hotline for the American Organ Donor Network.

"Hello, this is Chloe Sutton. My husband just passed away. I want to donate all of his viable organs," I said, my voice calm and clear. "Yes, the body is fresh. We're backstage at the Met Gala. I want to sign the consent forms immediately. Please send a team as soon as possible."

Connor stared at me in disbelief, utterly speechless as I finished the call.

"What organ donation? Mom, have you lost your mind?" he stammered, his voice shaking with shock.

I put down my phone, my expression hardening. "Dr. Hayes said he died of anaphylactic shock, right? That means his corneas, heart, liver, kidneys—they're all perfectly intact. Since he loved 'charity' so much in life, why not let him make one last contribution to medicine?"

It didn't take long for several staff members from the donation center to arrive with their equipment. They had been on standby at a nearby hospital, and my request was treated as the highest priority.

"Are you Mrs. Sutton? We received an urgent notification from the dispatch center," the lead staff member said, his tone brisk and professional.

I nodded politely, pointing to my "deceased" husband on the gurney.

"Yes, that’s me. The body is right here. Please, be quick. Every second counts."

The staff member looked at me with admiration in his eyes. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Sutton. People as selfless as you are rare. On behalf of the patients awaiting transplants, we are incredibly grateful."

"It's nothing. My husband was passionate about charity. I'm sure he would be happy to know his organs could save several lives," I replied.

The staff member nodded gratefully and put on his gloves. "Time is of the essence. We’ll place the body in a sterile transport container and take him to our facility for the procurement surgery immediately. Is that acceptable?"

"Of course, the sooner the better."

Just as the team began preparing to place Ricardo's body in the transport container, Connor finally broke down, screaming like a madman.

"Wait! Stop! You can't take him!"