Drenched in mud, I've just climbed down the scaffolding and started munching on a cold piece of stale bread when a luxury car speeds past me, effectively drenching me in muddy water.

The car window on the driver's side is quickly lowered. A sleazy guy hurls a pack of cigarettes in my face the next moment.

"Hey, peasant! This is a reward for you! I got really lucky today, after all!"

While I pick up the cigarette pack silently, the man happens to be boasting loudly to the woman sitting in the front passenger seat.

"My brother-in-law really is an idiot! He seriously thinks that my sister has a terminal disease! He went to the black market last night night just to sell his blood in exchange for 200 thousand dollars' worth of surgical fees! I end up winning double in the casino with that money of his!

"My sister told me that once that idiot gets his hands on the work injury compensation, she'll divorce him right away and buy me a new home!"

I grip the bread so hard that it crumples in my hand. After all, my wife, Estella Wilson, was just diagnosed with "late-stage stomach cancer" yesterday.

Suddenly, I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. It's a voice message from Estella.

"Hubby, it hurts so much going through the chemotherapy! The doctor told me that I'd be eligible for better medication if we could cough up another 200 thousand dollars. Can you please plead to the foreman and borrow some money from him?"

A sharp spasm twisted in my stomach as pain rippled through my body. Just yesterday afternoon, I—Raphael Krause—sold 14 ounces of my blood on the black market.

The puncture wound was still throbbing faintly as the skin around it bruised a deep, ugly purple.

Blake Wilson's mocking laugh echoed in my ears even after his luxury car had disappeared into the distance.

My eyes lingered on Estella Wilson's profile picture on my screen, her bright smile bathed in sunlight.

A metallic taste surged in my throat before I forced it back down. My voice was so hoarse that it was barely recognizable when I pressed the voice message button.

"Okay, honey, don't be afraid. I'll go borrow some money right now, so just focus on getting better," I coaxed her.

Then, I picked up the stale piece of bread from the ground and carefully brushed off the dirt. I ate it as I trudged back home, my legs feeling like lead.

By the time I made my way back to the shabby rental in the rundown district of Borellia, night had already fallen.

Estella lay weakly on the worn wooden bed with a washed-out blanket covering her. A pile of blood-stained tissues lay crumpled on the bedside table.

She immediately broke into a coughing fit when she heard the door open. "Hubby… you're back? It must've been a hard day," she rasped between coughs. Her eyes were red-rimmed as she struggled to turn her head toward me.

I walked over and stood by the bed. A swirl of emotions churned within me as I gazed quietly at Estella.

Her face was pale, likely covered with a thick layer of foundation, yet her hair looked freshly styled. It was smooth and glossy down to the tips.

Would someone suffering from stomach cancer really have the energy to style their hair?

Estella reached out and grasped the mud-stained hem of my shirt. "Did you manage to get the money?"

Of course, money was always the first thing she brought up.

"The foreman wasn't there." I stared straight at her as I spoke.

Estella's expression instantly turned cold as she jerked her hand away from my shirt.

"He wasn't there?" she repeated. "Couldn't you just go to his house and find him? Or is this your way of saying that you won't take care of me anymore? The doctor said that I won't live to see next month if I don't start taking better medicine!"

"Do you know the woman in the next bed, Laura Doyle? Her husband paid 50 thousand dollars on the spot! But what about you?" she snapped.

"I haven't had a single day of happiness since I married you. Now, I'm even about to die!" Her voice grew more agitated with every word as tears spilled down her face.

If it'd been yesterday, I would've already been on my knees, slapping and cursing myself for being useless. But now, I just looked at the blood-stained tissues on her bedside.

Beneath the sharp stench of cheap perfume lingered a sickly-sweet smell of syrup. It was the unmistakable scent of strawberry jam from the supermarket downstairs.

Estella couldn't even be bothered to buy a proper blood pack to make her act convincing.

"Most men recover quickly from blood loss. It won't kill you to draw a little more, so why don't you sell more of your blood? You wouldn't want to see me die in agony, would you?" A soft, pitiful note crept into her voice when I remained silent.

"Are you hungry? I'll cook something for you." I changed the subject as I turned and stepped into the cramped bathroom.

The coat she'd just taken off today lay soaking in a plastic basin. I plunged my hand into the icy water and felt a soggy wad of paper inside the pocket.

I took it out and carefully unfolded it. Although the ink had smudged a little, I could still make out the words on it.

It was a receipt for a lobster roll that cost 400 dollars and foie gras priced at 300 dollars. The payment had just been made at noon today.

I simply couldn't imagine a terminally ill patient eating a seafood feast. After all, every one of these dishes was strictly forbidden by the doctor.

Attached to the back of the receipt was a crumpled slip listing a 200-dollar fee for photocopying medical records at Cendollia Hospital.

I clenched the two pieces of paper as my nails dug deep into my palm.

Another violent wave churned in my stomach. I doubled over the sink and retched, but all that came up was stomach acid and yesterday's stale bread that'd yet to be fully digested.

In that moment, all I felt was a surge of overwhelming disgust.

I'd devoted the last five years of my life to loving Estella, working myself to the bone, only to realize that it'd all been a scam.

"What's taking you so long in there? My stomach hurts so bad that I can't stand it anymore. Hurry up and get me something warm to eat!" Her shrill voice drifted in from outside.

I turned on the tap, letting the cold water wash the vomit down the sink. Then, I laid the two slips of paper flat on the edge of the counter and dried them slowly using a hairdryer.

Once that was done, I folded and slipped them into the innermost pocket of my clothes. Taking a deep breath, I stepped out of the bathroom.

"Coming," I walked over to the crude gas stove as I spoke.

There was still half a bowl of oatmeal left in the pot from yesterday. I lit the stove and warmed it before walking toward the bedside with the bowl in hand.

Estella's gaze flickered with open disgust when she saw the bland, watery oatmeal. The next moment, a crash rang out as she knocked it aside with a sharp swing of her hand.

The bowl crashed to the ground, sending the scalding meal splashing across the back of my hand. A patch of red blisters formed instantly as a sharp pain shot through me.

"I can't believe you expect me to eat this crap. Are you trying to starve me to death? I've been diagnosed with stomach cancer, and I need proper nutrition! Can't you even afford to buy some meat for me?" Estella cursed as she pointed her finger at my nose.

I stared at the blisters swelling on the back of my hand. She didn't even spare them a glance.

All Estella cared about was eating meat. After all, someone who'd just eaten a lobster roll at noon couldn't possibly swallow a bowl of plain oatmeal at night.

I crouched down and picked up the broken porcelain pieces with my bare hands. The sharp edges sliced my index finger, dripping blood onto the floor.

"I'll go borrow some money tomorrow," I said as I kept my head down. My voice was completely devoid of any emotion.

"I suppose you still have some conscience left in you after all." Estella let out a cold sneer before turning to face away from me.

"Hurry up and clean this mess. It's annoying to even look at," she continued.

I threw the shards into the trash and wiped the spilled oatmeal off the floor bit by bit with a rag.

That night, I sat on the cold floor with my eyes wide open until dawn.

The next morning, I put on my worn, cement-stained workwear.

"I'm off to work," I said.

Estella didn't respond, likely still fast asleep. So, I closed the door behind me and followed a narrow path along the side into the bushes.

I kept my gaze fixed on the entrance.

The moment the clock struck 9:00 am, the security door swung open as Estella stepped out. She wore a tight red dress with high heels to match.

Her face was done up in heavy makeup, and her hips swayed as she strutted along. It was a stark contrast to the frail, dying state she'd shown the night before.

A familiar luxury car was parked at the mouth of the alley. Blake rolled the window down and whistled at her.

"Hurry up, Estella!" he urged.

She opened the door and got into the passenger seat before the car sped off.

I rushed downstairs and grabbed a rental bike by the roadside. Then, I pedaled with all my strength as I trailed far behind their car.

My legs burned from the strain, but I kept going. Half an hour later, the car pulled up in front of a high-end seafood restaurant in the city center.

I ditched the bike by the roadside and ducked into the bushes across from the restaurant. I watched as Estella and Blake walked in, chatting and laughing together.

It didn't take long before my in-laws, Allen Wilson and Adeline Myers, arrived.

The old geezer and hag were both dressed in brand-new clothes. In fact, their faces were flushed with excitement as they entered the restaurant.

I circled to the back alley and found the staff entrance. Then, I slipped into the kitchen while the workers were busy unloading ingredients.

I made my way along the corridor and found the VIP private room they were in. The door was left slightly ajar, so I hid in the storage room next door with my back pressed against the wall.

The voices inside carried out clearly.

"Come on, cheers! Let's celebrate Blake for winning 100 thousand dollars yesterday!" The voice belonged to Allen.

"Well, it's all thanks to that fool Raphael's hard-earned money," Blake replied before he burst out laughing.

"Alright, stop mentioning that pathetic loser. It's ruining my appetite," Estella said, her voice dripping with disdain.

"You really put on a convincing act. I can't believe he actually fell for it."

"How could he not? I even paid someone 200 dollars to forget the medical records." Estella's words came out muffled as she chewed on a crab leg.

"But there's nothing left to squeeze out of him now. I told him to borrow some money yesterday, and he came back empty-handed," she continued.

"Then what do we do? I'm still two million dollars short for my new apartment!" Panic crept into Blake's voice.

The room fell silent for a moment before Adeline spoke up. "Have you taken care of the matter I told you before, Estella?" she asked in a lowered tone.

"It's all taken care of, Mom. I've already bought an accident insurance policy for Raphael with the highest coverage online. In fact, I'm listed as the beneficiary. As long as an 'accident' happens while he's on-site, we'll get two million dollars from the insurance.

"Between that and the contractor's compensation, we can get at least three million dollars. By then, not only will Blake get his apartment, but we'll all also be able to move into a bigger place." A cold laugh escaped Estella.

I clamped a hand over my mouth in the storage room. Another surge of acid rose up from my stomach.

They were planning to commit murder for insurance fraud.

So this was the woman I'd loved with everything I had and the family I'd given my all to.

"But Raphael has always been so careful at work. How are we supposed to pull off the so-called accident, Estella?" Blake's voice carried a trace of impatience.