My Husband Handed Me a Divorce Folder in the Hospital, Changing Everything

The Trap Is Sprung

Our joyful laughter was abruptly cut short by the harsh, metallic click of the hospital room door swinging open. The warmth in the room instantly evaporated as Beatrice stepped inside, her designer heels clicking sharply against the linoleum floor. She wasn't alone. Behind her stood her personal attorney, Arthur Vance, and Mr. Sterling, the hospital’s chief financial officer.

Beatrice looked at my bald head with absolute disdain, a cold, triumphant smirk playing on her lips. She held up her smartphone, displaying a live video feed of my hospital bed. My stomach plummeted. She had bribed one of the night nurses to install a hidden camera in the corner of my room. She had seen our laughter; she had heard our entire plan to fake the divorce.

"Did you really think you could outsmart me, Thomas?" Beatrice sneered, her voice like ice. "You underestimate what I will do to protect this family's legacy from a leech."

She turned to Mr. Sterling, who cleared his throat nervously. He announced that because the primary funding source for my experimental clinical trial had been officially withdrawn by Beatrice's foundation, my treatment would be terminated immediately. They were going to disconnect my IV stands and transfer me to a public hospice facility by the end of the day.

Panic seized my chest, making it impossible to breathe. Thomas went completely pale, stepping between his mother and my bed. He begged her, swallowing his pride, pleading for my life. But Beatrice remained unmoved. Her lawyer stepped forward, placing a set of real, legally binding divorce papers on my overbed table.

Thomas looked at the papers, then at my pale, trembling face. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he realized he had no other choice. If he didn't sign, I would die. With a shaking hand, he picked up the pen and pressed it to the paper, signing away our marriage to save my life.