He cheated and I handed him the condom myself. He was violent and I kept the medicine ready before he even raised his hand. He brought women home and I welcomed them at the door with a smile, the candlelight casting soft shadows on my face, the wine already poured. The servants sneered behind my back, whispering that I had no dignity, that I was pitiful.

But they didn't know the truth.

The day I married him, I saw the countdown above his head—three years left.

Three years. That was all I had to endure. So, I played the role of the perfect, spineless wife, absorbing every slap, every insult, every humiliation without resistance. I became the unshakable pillar of our home, not out of love or devotion, but out of patience.

Once my husband's timer hit zero, everything—his fortune, his properties, his luxurious lifestyle—would be mine. I'd drive a Ferrari, wrap myself in designer clothes and keep a young lover on my arm, basking in the freedom I had earned.

Last night, the countdown had less than a day left. My heart pounded with excitement as I booked a Ferrari test drive overnight, imagining the wind in my hair, the weight of his wealth finally in my hands.

But this morning... the numbers were gone.

And when I looked in the mirror, my breath caught.

The bright red countdown had appeared—clear as day—above my own head.

——

I stood in front of the mirror, carefully lifting my hand to apply medicine to my collarbone.

Last night, Joseph had kicked me to the floor. The impact sent a sharp jolt through my body and when I hit the ground, my collarbone struck the edge of the bed with a loud crack—like something had snapped. For a moment, I thought it had. But when the pain dulled into a deep, throbbing ache instead of sharp agony, I realized I had been lucky.

And, since nothing was broken, I could still make breakfast.

A maid stood at the bathroom door, peeking in hesitantly. Her eyes flickered between the bruises on my skin and my steady hands as I dabbed the ointment.

"Madam, you didn't forget to prepare the cream, did you?" she asked lightly. "Mr. Joseph's been a bit heavy-handed lately."

Another maid snickered. "Last time, you put it on too late and the swelling was as big as a dumpling. But you're not the type to fear pain, huh, Madam?"

I turned, meeting their amused gazes with a smile. "This time, I put it on in advance. Even added a medicated patch. It won't interfere with making breakfast."

They laughed. And I knew exactly what they were laughing at.

They were laughing at my lack of dignity, at how I lived like a dog—how my husband slept with other women while I still served him tea with a smile.

But I didn't care.

Because unlike them, I understood what truly mattered.

I wasn't after dignity. I was after money.

More precisely, I was after the billions Joseph would leave behind once he was dead in just a few days.

***

Three years ago, the first time I saw Joseph was at a business banquet. The grand ballroom was filled with the elite—men in tailored suits, women draped in diamonds, the air thick with champagne and calculated conversations.

Then he walked in. Joseph Gray.

A black suit perfectly tailored to his tall, broad frame. Sharp brows. Deep-set eyes that held a cold, commanding presence. His posture was straight, his every step exuding confidence.

All around him, people paused.

Women straightened their backs, adjusted their hair, subtly shifted closer. The younger ones, barely concealing their excitement, stole glances at him with wide, infatuated eyes. Even men watched him with cautious admiration, measuring their own status against his.

But I wasn't looking at him for the same reason they were. I was staring at the bright red countdown floating above his head.

My breath caught. Three years?

I blinked, half expecting it to disappear. But the numbers remained, burning into my vision like an omen.

I had never seen anything like it before.

That night, I scoured the internet for answers and deep in the recesses of obscure forums, I found it—accounts from a small number of people who claimed to have the ability to see countdowns to others' deaths. Some called it a curse. Others, a gift.

For me, it was an opportunity.

Joseph was the first person I had ever seen with a timer over his head. And he wasn't just anyone. He was the only heir to the Gray Family's real estate empire, a fortune worth billions.

That night, I lay awake, gripping my calculator, running the numbers three times.

If I married him and lasted until he died, I'd never have to struggle again. I'd be swimming in wealth, living in luxury, indulging in whatever whims I pleased.

I set my plan into motion.

It didn't take much effort. I created frequent "coincidences," making sure our paths crossed. But before I could even execute half of them, Joseph noticed me first.

He was aggressive in his pursuit. Luxury cars arrived at my doorstep. Expensive designer gifts followed. He introduced me to his parents within a month. And before I knew it, he was slipping a ring onto my finger, declaring, "I'll protect you for the rest of my life."

I didn't believe in the promise of protection, but I did believe in the timeline. The rest of his life was only three years.

And as soon as we were married, just as I had expected, the illusion shattered.

Joseph wasn't the charming, devoted fiancé he had pretended to be. It didn't take long before he showed his true colors.

Joseph changed within three days. At our wedding, he had been the perfect groom—charming, passionate, whispering sweet promises as if I were the only woman in his world. But by the third day, I was nothing to him.

He loathed me. Not just with silent disdain, but with open hostility, as if my mere presence in his life was an insult.

Fine by me. The less he touched me, the better.

I didn't need love, didn't need affection. I didn't even need him to acknowledge me. All I had to do was play deaf and dumb, endure until the last day and the entire Gray fortune would become my personal ATM.

This morning was like any other. The eggs in the kitchen were boiled. I peeled them carefully, making sure to remove every last bit of shell before slicing them into his favorite sandwich. A pinch of black pepper—no more, no less—just the way he liked it.

As I was assembling his breakfast, Joseph came downstairs, lazily brushing his teeth. His hair was slightly tousled, his shirt wrinkled—clear signs that he had only just rolled out of bed.

His gaze landed on me, full of irritation. "You're worse than a dog," he muttered through the foam of his toothpaste. "I wouldn't even hit a dog this hard."

I smiled. "A dog bites. I don't."

He sneered, spat his toothpaste straight into the kitchen sink, wiped his mouth with a towel and turned to look at me, his expression dripping with contempt. "Look at yourself. Who would believe you're Mrs. Gray?"

Before I could respond, the soft shuffle of footsteps echoed from the stairs. A woman in my silk nightgown walked down—Cindy Gardner. Joseph's childhood sweetheart.

She had moved in during the second week of our marriage, claiming she was "helping to take care of him." She had made herself comfortable in my house, wore my most expensive clothes, used my personal skincare products and walked in and out of the master bedroom as if she owned it.

Cindy descended gracefully, adjusting the silk robe as she smiled at me, a lazy, smug curve to her lips. "Elisa, I was up with your husband all night. It was exhausting," she sighed, stretching her arms as if to emphasize just how much energy she had spent. "Could we take turns next time?"

I met her gaze without flinching. "Thank you, Cindy. If you're tired, maybe Joseph can bring in a few more karaoke girls to liven things up."

For the briefest second, something flickered in her eyes—anger, mockery, or something else—but she quickly masked it with a smirk, stepping toward Joseph and running her fingers along his arm.

I calmly turned back to breakfast, finishing my work with practiced efficiency. I placed his vitamins and stomach pills in the pillbox, arranging them in the correct order before handing them to him.

He took them with obvious disgust. "Why don't you just take the pills yourself?" he muttered. "Save me the headache of seeing you."

I lowered my gaze, my voice soft. "If I take them, I might die. You're not dead yet—I still need to stay alive."

The room fell silent. The maids, who had been stifling their giggles, suddenly avoided my eyes. None of them dared to speak.

This was me—Elisa. Mrs. Gray on paper. The family's full-time maid in reality.

***

At exactly seven in the evening, Joseph sent a text: [I'm bringing a friend home tonight.]

I put my phone down and got to work. I changed the diffuser in his study to lavender essential oil—he was prone to headaches after sleeping. Then, I switched out the guest room sheets for freshly washed ones and sprayed them lightly with his favorite cologne.

After that, I retrieved the red wine he had ordered last week, uncorked it and let it breathe. By the time the doorbell rang, I had just finished lighting the candles.

When I opened the door, Joseph stood there and beside him was another woman—one I hadn't seen before. A seductive beauty, dressed elegantly, her lips painted a striking red.

I smiled at her warmly. "Would you like a cocktail or red wine?"

The woman blinked, momentarily startled. Joseph brushed past me, his tone cold. "Drop the act. Get lost and stay out of my sight."

I stepped back immediately, retreating to stand by the staircase, my hands clasped loosely in front of me. I watched as they walked past, disappearing into the bedroom. The door clicked shut. I smiled, as if nothing had happened.

Behind me, a maid hesitated before whispering, "Madam... how... how can you stand this?"

I gently touched the bandage on my collarbone, pressing lightly. "And why not?" I replied calmly.

Only seventeen days left. I just needed to act for seventeen more days. Joseph would die and I would be reborn. So, every performance—I had to make it perfect.

At 1 AM, a furious argument broke out upstairs. The shouting grew louder, spilling down the staircase until it echoed through the house.

"If you love her that much, then stop bothering me, Joseph!" Cindy's voice was sharp, angry.

Joseph's response came just as heated. "What are you whining about? Why should I get rid of Elisa?"

"Why?" she shrieked. "She's not even your real wife!"

There was a pause. Then, Joseph's voice, colder than ever. "She is on paper. You, on the other hand, are not."

Cindy stormed out of the study in fury, wrapped in my cashmere shawl. Her high heels clicked against the floor, each stomp ringing through the hallway like gunshots, as if she wanted to poke a hole in the floor.

I had just finished mopping the kitchen tiles when I found myself near the living room. The damp rag in my hand was still dripping slightly, leaving faint water marks on the floor. Joseph turned his head, his gaze landing on me before shifting down to the rag in my hand. His expression twisted as if I were nothing more than a stain on the floor—disgusted and irritated.

The next second, he raised his foot and kicked me. I stumbled, landing on the carpet beside the sofa. The impact wasn't harsh enough to cause real pain, but it was meant to humiliate.

"You want to give it a try?" he asked, looking down at me with a mocking smile, his voice carrying the lazy arrogance of a man who believed himself untouchable.

I sat up, patted my knees clean and responded gently, "I wouldn't dare. I know my place."

Without hesitation, I reached under the coffee table and pulled out a brown paper bag, handing it to him. "These are your favorites—strawberry-flavored. Cindy said you enjoy them more this way."

He paused for a moment, his fingers tightening slightly around the bag before he let out a cold sneer. "You're really thorough, Elisa."

"Well, I'm still counting on you to leave me something after you die. I should at least make sure you're happy while you're alive."

My tone was sincere, my face relaxed, as if we were merely discussing whether to have fried or scrambled eggs for breakfast, not a man's impending death.

Joseph stared at me for two seconds, his expression unreadable, before turning away in apparent disgust. He climbed the stairs without another word.

Half an hour later, he came back down—with the seductive beauty he had brought home earlier trailing behind him. By then, I had already changed the sheets in the guest room and sprayed the air with his preferred fragrance—yuzu and sea salt, a scent he found soothing after a long night.

"The light in the left guest room is broken," I reminded him softly as I adjusted the vase on the hallway table. "The right one has fresh sheets. You can go straight there."

The woman hesitated, her eyes darting between Joseph and me, uncertainty flickering in her expression. Then, in a small voice, she asked, "Is she your sister?"

Joseph ignored her, as if the question was beneath him.

I smiled and answered instead, my voice calm. "I'm his wife."

Her expression shifted immediately. There it was—the awkwardness, the discomfort, the urge to take a step back. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, I continued, "But don't worry. We have an open relationship. You can relax."

A flash of doubt crossed her face, but after a brief pause, she nodded and walked into the guest room. I considerately closed the door behind her before turning around, only to meet the gaze of Sasha, one of the maids.

She stood at the end of the hallway, holding a stack of neatly folded bed linens, her expression one of silent disbelief—like someone watching an absurd tragedy unfold.

"Madam... are you really not planning to... divorce?" she finally asked hesitantly.

I let out a soft chuckle, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "If I leave, I'll get nothing. These three years would've been for naught, wouldn't they?"

Sasha opened her mouth, but no words came out. In the end, she simply lowered her head and walked away.

At 3 AM, the noises from the guest's bedroom finally quieted. The muffled sounds of laughter and movement had dragged on for hours.

Wrapped in a coat, I curled up on the sofa downstairs, scrolling through my phone absentmindedly. My mind, however, was focused on something else entirely—the glowing countdown hovering over Joseph's head. [0 days, 13 hours, 42 minutes and 2 seconds.]

Almost there. Only thirteen hours and forty-two minutes left.

I tapped into my schedule and scrolled to tomorrow at 10 AM. Quietly, I clicked the reservation button: [Ferrari Test Drive—Red Portofino M]

A quiet smile tugged at my lips as I put my phone away. Just one more night. The sun would rise soon.

At 7 AM, I stirred from my sleep, my neck aching from the awkward position on the sofa. I had expected to wake up to the chill of the kitchen tiles, to the quiet murmurs of the maids as they gossiped behind my back. But instead, the first thing I saw upon opening my eyes was Joseph, sitting in front of me.

He held a bowl of steaming hot porridge, the faint curl of steam rising into the air. My gaze lifted to his face, then above his head—where the countdown was still running. [0 days, 4 hours, 19 minutes and 25 seconds.]

For the first time in three years, I gave him a genuine, heartfelt smile—one that reached my eyes. Because to me, he no longer looked like my husband. He looked like a mountain of gold.

He wasn't dressed in his usual crisp suit. Instead, he wore casual loungewear, his hair slightly messy, as if he had just woken up. He looked... almost human.

"You don't look well," he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Eat something."

I froze, my throat suddenly dry. "How... thoughtful," I murmured. "Are you trying to poison me? Speeding things up for me?"

He didn't laugh. He didn't sneer or throw the bowl aside in irritation. Instead, he reached out and zipped up my coat, his fingers brushing against the fabric as he pulled it to my chin. His voice was unexpectedly gentle. "Don't say such things."

I hesitated, my gaze shifting to the bowl of porridge in his hands. The last time I saw him in the kitchen was when Cindy got drunk and he had personally made her soup.

And now, he was sitting in front of me, offering me breakfast. I wasn't sure whether to feel amused or suspicious.