Terminal Diagnosis: The Obedient Wife's Rebellion

Chapter 5

Word Count: 815 | Released on: Today at 15:27

son estate was set for three. Heavy silver

a high neck, looking incredibly modest from the front. But as she turned to take her seat, the

d his face immediately twisted into a scowl. He gripp

as with a rich fig compote. Constance picked up her fork and took a bite, closin

etched, thick and suffocati

win you anything," Daren spat,

llowed, took a sip of her red wine, and s

rying to get a reaction. "And you'll never get a piece of the F

ainst the fine china. She turned her head slowly and locke

ce soft and conversational. "Do

y the question. His mouth o

ead fish," Constance said smoothly

ngled snort. She slapped both hands over her mouth an

us red. The veins in his neck popped. He

e slicing through his anger like a scalpel. "If I wa

up. She looked down at him, her po

family's money, D

He opened his mouth to scream at he

the head of the table, his dark eyes taking in the scene: Constance standing ta

ch asked. His voice w

g finger at Constance. "She insult

ed his head to l

cked up her fork and elegantly

re was no anger in his voi

re shoulder. "I stated fa

ocking it backward. "You see? She'

t loud, but the sheer, freezing authority

n fr

aid. He stared at his brother,

slapped. "What? She's the one

The physical threat was palpable. Arch didn't care who st

Constance. He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw p

d out, the words tasting

curled up. A sweet, perfectly detached smile spread acr

brightly. "Now eat your din

righted his chair, and sat down. He st

s silverware. As he did, his eyes flicked to Constance. He saw that sweet, empty

Chapter End

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Terminal Diagnosis: The Obedient Wife's Rebellion

Leo Fairchild Modern

“For two years, Constance Mcfarland played the perfect, invisible wife. She woke up at 5:00 AM every day, surviving on half a cup of plain oats just to maintain the exact dress size her billionaire husband, Arch, demanded. Then, the doctor handed her a medical report with bold black letters: Stage IV Pancreatic Cancer. Six months to live. In a fraction of a second, memories of her pathetic existence flooded her mind. She remembered swallowing her bile when Arch walked past her without a single glance. She remembered biting her cheek until it bled while her mother-in-law publicly mocked her cheap upbringing. She remembered constantly bailing out her parasitic brother, only for her own family to treat her like a disposable ATM. She had starved and silenced herself to build a flawless facade for people who wouldn't even care if she dropped dead tomorrow. The realization hit her like a physical blow. Why had she spent her only life locked in a gilded cage, shrinking herself to please a man made of ice? The diagnosis wasn't a death sentence. It was a starting pistol. Constance didn't shed a single tear. Instead, she went straight to the bank and liquidated every penny she owned. She went home, threw her entire conservative wardrobe onto the floor, and fried a dripping bacon and cheese sandwich in front of her horrified husband. "No, this is freedom." Putting on a blood-red silk gown and five-inch stilettos, Constance smiled. She was going to spend her last six months burning the Ferguson empire to the ground.”