My Marriage Was a Poison Pill

My name is Salome Dawson, my husband is Raymond Shane, and we're notorious as the crazy couple in City A. Everyone calls us a miserable pair, but only we know this marriage has long been a web spun from interests and habit—no one ever truly meant to run. Until that day when the hospital handed me the diagnosis, spelled out in black and white: "Advanced stomach cancer." I stared at those words for a full ten minutes; my fingertips felt as cold as if they'd been soaked in ice water. I didn't cry, I didn't panic; I just instinctively wanted to call Raymond Shane. It rang three times before he picked up, and a woman's sweet laughter came through, followed by Raymond Shane's indulgent tone, "Don't make a scene, I'm on the phone." "What's up?" His voice went cold and sharp, like he was dealing with a nuisance. I opened my mouth, but the words "I have cancer" got stuck in my throat—I couldn't get a sound out. "Nothing. Hang up. I'm busy." He hung up without waiting for me to say anything. Later, I found out that he was busy sweet-talking Rose, a college student interning at a hotel under his company. Rose looked very pure—her eyes like a little deer's, carrying an innocent kindness, exactly the type Raymond adored. Before long, Raymond showed up at a friends' gathering with Rose and publicly declared, "I'm divorcing Salome Dawson and marrying Rose. I'll give her the most spectacular wedding in the entire city." All eyes were on me—some filled with sympathy, some watching the drama, others gloating with schadenfreude. I held the wine glass steadily, took a slow sip, and said as calmly as if I were talking about someone else, "Fine. We'll split the property according to the prenuptial agreement." Raymond clearly didn't expect me to be so blunt. He froze for a moment, then frowned, "Salome, what scheme are you up to this time?" I smiled but said nothing. Only I knew that beneath this calm surface, my insides felt soaked in poison, aching so badly I wanted to curl up. After the gathering broke up, Raymond called me over. He leaned against the car door, a cigarette pinched between his fingers, the smoke blurring his features: "Salome, I'm warning you, don't touch Rose. She's nothing like those other women." "Yvonne Dawson's next surgery fees and her private medical team are all under my control." "If you dare lay a finger on Rose, Yvonne can forget about her medication." I stopped in my tracks and looked back at him. "Raymond, have you forgotten the rules between us?" When we got married, we had an agreement: he could have his fun, but he was never to use family matters to threaten me, especially not my sister, Yvonne Dawson. Yvonne Dawson has had congenital heart disease since childhood and has needed treatment for years. All these years, the medical bills have been shouldered by Raymond Shane, which is one of the reasons I haven't completely torn things apart with him. Raymond Shane flicked the ash from his cigarette, his gaze cold as ice: "I make the rules, and I can change them too." I didn't argue with him anymore and turned to walk into the night.