He didn't look at me. Just tossed the papers onto the coffee table.

"Sign it."

I walked over and picked them up.

It was a divorce agreement. The house belonged to the husband. The car belonged to the husband. The savings belonged to the husband. The wife would leave with nothing, forfeiting all rights to marital property.

Not a single crumb left for me.

"Thaddeus," I said, looking at the man I'd spent three years of my life with. "I'm leaving. Does that make you feel even a little sorry?"

He let out a contemptuous laugh, then settled onto the couch beside his mother and lit a cigarette. Through the haze of smoke, his face looked warped.

"Sorry?" He flicked ash onto the floor. "The only thing I regret is not dumping you sooner." His eyes dragged over me with undisguised disgust. "Everything you own isn't worth two hundred bucks. You couldn't even afford to embarrass yourself in public. Paulette is young, beautiful, graduated from a top university, and most importantly, she can give me a son. And you? You've been taking up space without producing an heir, and now you've got a terminal illness on top of it. What am I supposed to do, wait around for you to die and then arrange the funeral?"

Mrs. Gilbert Sr. chimed right in. "Exactly! The Gilbert family line has been passed down for generations. It will NOT end because of you!"

Watching the two of them, mother and son, I felt strangely calm.

Late-stage pancreatic cancer. His reproductive function was already gone. What pregnancy was Paulette Fox carrying?

A man like Thaddeus Gilbert. Someone could sell him out and he'd count the cash for them.

"Fine. I'll sign."

I picked up the pen and held it above the paper.

A flash of wild elation crossed Thaddeus's eyes.

"But I have a condition."

His expression curdled instantly. "On what grounds?"

"I want five hundred thousand dollars in cash. The moment I sign, I walk out that door and you'll never hear from me again. Otherwise, I'll die right here in this house and turn it into a place no one will ever want to live in."

Mrs. Gilbert Sr. sneered. "You think your life is worth five hundred thousand?"

As if a life could be measured in dollars.

Thaddeus pressed a hand on her arm, his face dark and menacing as he stared at me. "Pearl. Are you threatening me?"

"It's a transaction. Five hundred thousand buys you a lifetime of happiness and a birth certificate for your son. You're telling me that's not worth it?"

His jaw worked silently. I could practically see the calculations ticking behind his eyes: She's only got three months left anyway. The money goes out, but she won't live long enough to spend it all. Once she's dead, it comes right back to me.

"Deal!" The word squeezed through his clenched teeth. "Your turn. Sign. Now."

My phone chimed.

Five hundred thousand dollars. Deposited.

I checked the balance notification, then signed my name in one clean stroke.

Pearl Cobb. The ink was still wet.

From this moment forward, there was nothing between Thaddeus Gilbert and me but a debt to settle.

Mrs. Gilbert Sr. snatched up the agreement and clutched it to her chest like a trophy.

"What's the rush?" I rolled up my sleeves and headed for the kitchen. "Let me cook one last meal. For old times' sake. A peaceful parting."

Thaddeus frowned, ready to refuse, but then glanced at his watch and changed his mind. "Make it quick. Paulette's coming for dinner. I don't want her seeing you here."

I stepped into the kitchen and shut the door behind me.

The sound of their laughter cut off like a switch.

I unwrapped the fresh pork belly and the blocks of lard I'd bought earlier.

This farewell dinner would be anything but bland.

Thaddeus's favorite dishes, every single one of them, now served a different purpose entirely. Braised pork belly, glistening in a ruby-red glaze of caramelized sugar, swimming in rendered fat and heavy sauce. Deep-fried pork intestines, deliberately left pungent, fried until the outside shattered and the inside stayed tender. And a whole pot of lard-crackle tofu soup, rich enough to coat the back of a spoon.

Every dish loaded with fat, protein, and sugar.

For a late-stage pancreatic cancer patient, this wasn't a meal. It was poison.

When the aroma filled the apartment, Paulette Fox arrived.

From behind the kitchen door came a syrupy "Thaddy!" followed by Mrs. Gilbert Sr.'s fawning laughter, dripping with approval.

I carried the dishes out.

Paulette was wearing the latest Chanel, carrying a gift bag of high-end supplements, draped against Thaddeus's chest like she belonged there.

The moment she saw me, her nose wrinkled. "Oh my, that grease smell is intense. What on earth did you cook, Pearl? It's so heavy and oily. How is Thaddy supposed to eat any of this?"

Her eyes blazed with provocation.

Thaddeus caught the scent of braised meat, and his Adam's apple bobbed.

In the early stages of pancreatic cancer, appetite vanishes. But his had been misdiagnosed as gastritis, and the only thing he'd been taking was antacids. What he felt now was a sick, gnawing hunger that wouldn't quit.

"Perfect timing. I'm starving." He shoved Paulette aside and dropped into a chair, chopsticks already snatching up a chunk of braised pork belly. "Mm. Not bad."

Mrs. Gilbert Sr. shuffled over, shoveling food into her mouth between insults. "The jinx actually has a shred of decency. Figured she'd serve us a proper meal before she crawls off to die."

I watched Thaddeus wolf down the food, shoveling it in like a man possessed. To me, he looked like a pig being fattened for slaughter.

I turned and pulled a bottle of high-proof liquor from the cabinet.

"Thaddeus, let's have a drink." I filled a glass to the brim. "A toast to your newfound bachelorhood. And to Paulette, of course, on the joyous news of her... little bundle."

Thaddeus grabbed the glass, his face already flushed. "At least you know your place."

He tipped his head back and drained it. As the liquor burned its way down, his brow creased, and his hand drifted to his upper abdomen.

That was his pancreas screaming.

I poured myself a glass of plain water.

Cheers, husband.

This meal is your last.

The atmosphere at the table was strange, but lively. Thaddeus ate with gusto. The braised pork was already gone.

Paulette, eager to play the role of devoted woman, kept piling fatty intestines into his bowl.

"Eat more, Thaddeus. Build up your strength so you can take care of me and the baby." Her voice was syrupy sweet, but her eyes kept sliding toward me, glittering with triumph.

Mrs. Gilbert Sr. had her mouth stuffed full of meat and still managed to berate me. "Look at how thoughtful little Paulette is! And look at you, standing there like a wooden post. You can't even pour a drink properly!"

I picked up the bottle obediently and filled Thaddeus's glass.

"You're right, Mom. I've always been the slow one." My voice was soft. My eyes were empty. "Thaddeus, have another. High proof cuts through all that grease."

He was already half-drunk. The alcohol had stripped away whatever restraint he had, leaving nothing but swagger.

"Pour it! I'm in a great mood today!" He knocked it back in one gulp.

The moment he set the glass down, something shifted.

The flush drained from his face in seconds, replaced by a waxy pallor. Cold sweat beaded along his hairline and slid down his temples.

Thaddeus let out a low grunt. His chopsticks clattered to the floor.

Both hands clamped over his abdomen. His entire body curled inward.

"Thaddeus, what's wrong?" Paulette jolted, her soup spoon splashing into her bowl.

Mrs. Gilbert Sr. held out a chicken leg. "Son, don't go scaring your mother like that."

He couldn't speak. A wet, gurgling sound rose from his throat, and white foam seeped from the corners of his mouth.

The pain was as if a fist had reached inside him and was wringing his organs like a rag. Pancreatic cancer compounded by acute pancreatitis, ignited by alcohol. The agony was the medical equivalent of being flayed alive.

"It hurts... God, it hurts..." The words ground out through clenched teeth. His body listed sideways, and he toppled off the chair, crashing to the floor and dragging it down with him.

"Murder! She's killing him!" Mrs. Gilbert Sr. shrieked, jabbing a finger at me, her eyes bulging red. "It was you! You poisoned the food! You're trying to kill my son!"

She snatched up the empty liquor bottle and hurled it at me.

I stepped aside. The bottle shattered against the wall, glass scattering across the floor.

"Mom, we all ate the same food. How come he's the only one who's been 'poisoned'?"

I looked down at Thaddeus writhing on the floor, my gaze cold and clinical. Then I pulled out my phone. "Let's call an ambulance first. Wait too long, and it might be too late."

The ambulance arrived quickly.

Mrs. Gilbert Sr. wailed and beat her chest. Paulette stood to the side, dabbing at her tears. And I stood apart from all of it, calm as a stranger passing through.

The hospital they took Thaddeus to happened to be the very one where he worked.

After they wheeled him into the emergency room, Mrs. Gilbert Sr. collapsed onto the floor, slapping her thighs and howling. "My poor boy! My poor, poor boy! Cursed with a wife who's a walking death sentence for the whole family!"

Paulette grabbed a passing nurse by the arm and jabbed a finger in my direction. "Nurse, you be the judge! This woman has a terminal illness and she's trying to drag her husband to the grave with her! She poisoned his food!"

Most of the doctors and nurses in the corridor knew Thaddeus. The moment those words landed, their gazes swiveled toward me, dripping with contempt.

"That's Dr. Gilbert's wife? She looks so harmless, but she's rotten inside."

"I heard she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Must've snapped."

"Poor Dr. Gilbert. Married a psychopath."

The whispers buzzed around me like flies.

I walked to a bench, sat down, and pulled the diagnosis report from my bag. I snapped a photo and sent it to my lawyer.

Draft an asset-preservation motion. And pull Paulette Fox's hotel records.

After I hit send, I looked up—straight into Paulette's venomous stare.

She clicked toward me in her stilettos, towering over me with the smugness of someone who believed she'd already won.

"Pearl, you're finished. The second Thaddeus wakes up, I'm telling him exactly what you did. You can rot in prison."

She raised her hand to slap me.

This time, I didn't flinch.

The instant her palm was about to connect, I caught her wrist, twisted, and cracked her across the face with everything I had.

Paulette staggered back several steps. The left side of her face swelled red almost immediately.

"How dare you hit me!" She clutched her cheek and shrieked.

"Because I feel like it." I stood and closed the distance between us. "I am Thaddeus Gilbert's lawfully wedded wife. And what exactly are you? A nameless, titleless mistress—screaming in my face like you have the right. You think you're worthy?"

"You—!" Paulette was shaking with rage. She spun toward Mrs. Gilbert Sr. "Mom, look at her!"

Mrs. Gilbert Sr. scrambled up from the floor and lurched toward me.

"Enough!" A sharp voice cut through the hallway.

Dr. Harmon emerged from the emergency room holding a set of scans, his expression grave. He was Thaddeus's department chief and had always thought highly of him.

"What is all this noise? This is a hospital!" He shot Mrs. Gilbert Sr. and Paulette a withering look, then turned to me, something unreadable in his eyes. "Family of the patient? Come with me to my office."

Mrs. Gilbert Sr. wiped her tears and shoved her way to the front. "This woman tried to kill my son! Doctor, was my son poisoned by her? Is it poison?"

Dr. Harmon ignored her and walked away.

We followed him inside.