No Mercy for Turncoats

The year my girlfriend, Maisie Summers, and I were supposed to get married, I broke up with her.

Later, she made it big and used every means necessary to force me to marry her anyway.

Everyone says we're destined to be together from the start. Yet no one knows that after we got married, she's been bringing different men home every so often.

I never react and pretend as if I don't see anything.

While she sleeps around night after night, I silently count how many days I have left to live.

In the second year of my marriage to Maisie Summers, she took a male intern from her company as her kept lover.

His name was Dash Archer. He wore semi-rimless glasses, always sported trendy hairstyles, and had strikingly handsome looks.

He was exactly Maisie's type. Besides me, he was the man who had stayed by her side the longest.

My friends said he looked a lot like me when I had just entered the workforce. That was probably why Maisie felt differently about him. In fact, it was entirely possible that she had developed feelings for him.

The first time I saw Dash was the day my condition worsened. I had gone to the hospital for a follow-up that day. The doctor, Robin Carson, frowned and told me that my condition had deteriorated since my last visit. I had to choose between undergoing chemotherapy or getting injections of a special drug.

To me, chemotherapy meant being locked away and waiting to die, but the special drug was insanely expensive.

I had money in my bank account that I had saved by working two jobs every day, but I couldn't touch it. So, I had no choice but to ask Maisie if I could borrow money from her.

Before I even reached her office, I saw Dash. Dressed in a jacket and expensive sneakers, he was really good-looking and radiated youth and vitality from head to toe.

I recognized him instantly because I had seen him in the photo Maisie had saved as her phone wallpaper.

One day, she had deliberately placed her phone in front of me and asked, "Does he look good? This is my new boyfriend."

I stared at it a long time before saying yes. But she got mad again and demanded to know why I wasn't jealous. I said nothing and silently mocked myself. As a dying man, what was there for me to be jealous of?

By then, my arrival at the company had drawn everyone's attention.

Dash looked me up and down before whispering to the person beside him, "Is he Maisie's husband? Why does he look like a skeleton? Why does everyone say I look like him? I'm not some walking skeleton."

He was right. Calling me a skeleton was probably the most accurate description of my current state.

The person beside him quietly tugged at his sleeve. "Stop talking nonsense. He's still her legal husband, after all. Be careful, or Maisie might come after you."

Dash shot me a resentful glare, then suddenly raised his voice. "Why didn't Maisie pick you up, Tristan? That's weird. She picks me up for work every day and even buys me breakfast. I thought she'd treat you better."

His words were an undisguised provocation.

This was the first time I had seen such a brazen, arrogant lover, but it wasn't surprising, considering how much Maisie spoiled him.

After we married, she had countless lovers. One after another, she brought them home and behaved intimately with them right in front of me.

None of those men lasted more than a week by her side—except Dash, whom she had been with for nearly a year. She even bought him a villa and kept him tucked away like her secret lover.

Every weekend, they would go shopping, watch movies, dine out, and do escape rooms. They were no different from an ordinary couple at all.

She gave him all her heart but never brought him home. Instead, she would show me their photos and messages as proof of how deeply in love they were.

I smiled as I looked at Dash now. "Since she favors you so much, you should hurry up and get her to divorce me. That way, you can take my place and openly be with her instead of being a secret lover forced to live in the shadows."