My husband, Bowen Liddell, said I was not gentle enough. My parents called me selfish, and my daughter said she loved Yvonne Lawson more. So, I decided to spend my last 72 hours giving everything I had—my life, my legacy—to this perfect woman. 

The doctor’s words echoed in my ears. “It’s late-stage cancer. If you don’t start the special treatment immediately, you have, at most, three days.” 

I leaned back in the hospital bed and stared out the window. I had poured myself into this marriage for seven years as Bowen’s wife until she appeared. 

The door opened, and Bowen walked in. His expression was already tinged with impatience as he asked, “You okay?” 

“I’m fine,” I answered softly. 

He frowned. “The doctor said you need that experimental treatment, but—” 

“But Yvonne needs it more, right?” I finished for him, curling my lips into a bitter smile. 

Yvonne was the pitiful girl I convinced my parents to adopt from the orphanage when I was 12. I treated her like a real sister, never imagining she would take everything from me one day. 

“You have to understand,” Bowen said, his tone softening. “Yve’s condition is worse. Her kidneys are close to failing, and you…you still look fine.” 

Yeah, I looked okay. No one knew I had been secretly taking fatal doses of painkillers just to numb the agony that the cancer was causing. 

I replied calmly, “I understand. Let her have the treatment.” 

Relief washed over Bowen’s face. “I knew you’d understand. You’ve changed a lot these past few years—you’re not so stubborn anymore.”