Terminal Diagnosis: The Obedient Wife's Rebellion

Chapter 6

Word Count: 747 | Released on: Today at 15:27

d of old paper and lemon polish. The walls w

rom Mr. Price. The elderly lawyer had been handling h

nstance said. Her voice was

es. He looked at the young, vibrant woman sitting across from him. "Mrs.

interrupted. Her tone wa

fresh legal pad toward him. "Very well. Ho

ed trust, the cash accounts, everything-don

ed rapidly. "All of it? Mrs. Ferguson, what abou

enny to the Mcfarlands. Not a penny to t

ofessional training kicked in, a

vy Montblanc pen. She pressed the nib to the paper. Her hand was perfectly steady. She signed her na

treet, the cold air hit her face. She took a deep breath. A massive,

Ferguson estate, Mrs. Fos

y. He asked to see you," the

all and pushed the heavy oa

ve desk, reading a legal brief. H

d. You're coming," Arch said. It

refusing. But then she thought about Doretta. She tho

ignited in

her voice matchi

at her quick compliance. He seemed to search her face for a

d and walked ou

he hallway, her phone

ut. The caller

er. The boy who had drained her bank accounts, used her as a shie

bed in her temples. She pressed the gr

e asked, her v

c, high-pitched with panic. In the background, Constance could

e. Please come. They'

te. For twenty-four years, she had cleaned up his me

ess," she said. H

the coat closet in the foyer and pu

e door was slightly ajar. Arch was st

rch asked, h

arms into the coat.

matter,"

nt door and walked

ose. His jaw tightened, and his index finger began to tap against th

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.”