He embraced her. Passionately. Like he hadn’t just told me he was too weak to even sit up. My heart pounded as I watched him laugh, whispering things in her ear. Then she climbed into his bed.
I felt sick. My world shattered as they kissed, completely oblivious to the pain they were causing me. This wasn’t a dying man. This was a cheating, lying fraud.
I barely made it to the hospital the next morning without breaking down. I confronted Eric with the footage. His face drained of color. No excuses, no explanations—just pure, panicked silence.
“You’re not dying, are you?” I spat.
He stammered, but the truth was written all over his face. He had faked the diagnosis. Why? To manipulate me, to make me stay, while sneaking around with her.
I left. Reported him. Turns out, the “doctors” were in on it—paid actors, part of an elaborate con.
The stranger who warned me? She was his mistress’s ex-wife. She knew exactly what he was.
I got the divorce. And he? He got what he deserved—prison time for fraud.
