“I’ll help your father get out early. I’ll pay off his debts. Your family will never want for anything again. Just marry me and bear me a son. I’ll die in a year anyway.”
He spoke as though negotiating the purchase of property.
The girl said nothing. She studied his face, his assured manner, and unexpectedly felt a trace of pity. Forty years old. Wealthy. Yet alone. He insisted doctors had given him no more than a year.
She agreed. Not for the money—or so she convinced herself. He would be gone in a year regardless. Her father would be freed, her mother would receive treatment. What did she truly stand to lose?
The wedding was small and swift.
But that night, something happened that filled the girl with terror, and by morning she had fled the house.
After her husband drifted to sleep, she lay awake. The house felt unfamiliar and cold. She rose to walk along the hallway and noticed a light glowing in the office. The door stood slightly ajar.
Documents were spread across the desk.
She had no intention of prying into private papers. Yet certain words caught her eye. A date. A signature. The seal of a clinic.
Slowly, she stepped closer.
It was a medical report from several months earlier. Printed clearly: satisfactory health. Positive prognosis. Not a single mention of a terminal illness.
Beside it lay another paper—a contract with an attorney. If a child were born, all property would transfer to the heir. If no child arrived, the marriage would be dissolved within a year, and she would leave with nothing.
Later she learned the full truth: a wealthy relative had passed away, leaving him her entire estate under one condition—he must father a child within a year.
He had deceived her and taken advantage of her compassion, only to discard her afterward like something unwanted.
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