The Dead Wife's Florist

Vivian Lincoln messaged me again. It was a photo of the F Country tower, captioned: "Plane tickets booked for next month—ready for a shopping spree together?" I stared at the screen, my fingertip hovering over the chat box for a long time. In the end, I just typed, "No, I still have to rush the plan, don't have much time." She was the senior who took me under her wing when I joined the company. But over the past two years, she often invited me to expensive places, her tone always tinged with subtle boasting. Half an hour after I sent the message, she finally replied. It was a string of cold ellipses, like a fine needle, lightly pricking my heart. That evening, exhausted, I collapsed onto the sofa, wanting to check the time on Simon Gabriel's cell phone. After unlocking, the weather forecast popup appeared at the top of the screen—the location was F Country. I suddenly smiled, but a sharp pain twisted in my stomach. Vivian Lincoln had posted pictures of the scenery in F Country on her social media last week, calling it 'a rare moment to relax.' It turned out that the words, 'let's go together,' had never been a sincere invitation. It was a covert way of telling me that I didn't even have the right to know where she and Simon Gabriel were going. I pressed my aching stomach and rummaged through the drawer to find that crumpled medical report. The words 'late-stage stomach cancer' were like thorns etched into the paper, piercing my eyes with pain every time I saw them. I picked up the cell phone and dialed Dr. Carter. "Calvin, I've made up my mind. I'm giving up the surgery and signing the organ donation agreement." "Who are you talking to on the phone?" A warm hand suddenly gripped my wrist, and Simon Gabriel's voice came from behind. Startled, I nearly dropped the phone. I hurriedly hung up and turned to force a smile at him. "No one—just a client asking about a plan." He frowned, eyes full of scrutiny. "Shirley, I've told you before, don't contact male clients after work hours. Did you forget?" A flare of anger rose inside me, only to be crushed again by exhaustion. In these past two months, I've lost nearly twenty pounds; my clothes have become loose all over, yet he has never asked a single word. He only cares whether I'm "obedient," or if I'm involved with other men. "I'm tired. I want to sleep." I tore my hand free and headed toward the bedroom. My bones felt as if the sinews had been pulled from them; every step felt unbearably heavy. But he caught up and snatched the cell phone from my hand. "Unlock it." His tone brooked no refusal, his fingers clutching my wrist, forcing me to press my fingerprint. I panicked. That call was from Dr. Carter; I can't let him know about my condition. "Simon Gabriel, stop making a scene!" I reached out to snatch it, but he shoved me against the wall. The cell phone screen lit up, and the name "Dr. Carter" in the call log stood out clearly. He stared at those words, his eyes instantly turning cold. "Dr. Carter? Which Dr. Carter? When did you meet him?" Before I could explain, he had already hit the redial button. My heart jumped into my throat as I prayed Dr. Carter wouldn't answer. But after three rings, Dr. Carter's gentle voice came through: "Why did you suddenly hang up just now?" The room fell silent instantly. Simon Gabriel's face darkened like ink; he grabbed my chin so hard it brought tears to my eyes. "Shirley Scott, you've been cheating on me?"