After His Mistress Faked My Medical Report

The red circle on the calendar became increasingly vivid; it marked the date of my third wedding anniversary with Yves Scott. I adjusted the collar of my shirt before the mirror, a smile playing at the corner of my lips. Over these three years, we moved from a rented tiny studio to a villa in the city center. His company grew from a small three-person workshop to an industry trailblazer, and I have always been his strongest support behind the scenes. Now, it is time to welcome a new member to our family. I didn't tell Yves Scott; I quietly scheduled a full physical examination at a private hospital. As preparation before trying to conceive, I wanted to surprise him with a clean health report and a proposal to have a baby. The hospital corridor was quiet, and the scent of disinfectant wasn't overpowering. When the nurse handed me the examination form, her kind smile put me at ease. All the tests went smoothly until I received a call three days later to collect the report. I purposely left work early and walked into the hospital, bathed in the fading light of the setting sun. Inside the doctor's office, the curtains were tightly drawn, and the lighting was stark and pale. "Mrs. Bauer," the doctor adjusted his glasses, his tone heavy, "the report shows you have terminal stomach cancer, and also... congenital infertility." My ears buzzed loudly, as if countless bees were wildly flying inside them. Terminal stomach cancer. Infertility. These words felt like two knives forged in ice, piercing straight through my heart. "Your remaining life expectancy is approximately three months." The doctor's voice faded; I only saw his lips move but could no longer hear his words clearly. The report paper in my hand felt light, yet heavy as a branding iron. Every single word on it twisted and warped, finally blurring into a sea of crimson. How could I possibly have cancer? I have annual basic check-ups, and just last month I hiked with Yves Scott, effortlessly reaching the summit in a single breath. Infertility? That's utterly ridiculous—I have never had any related diagnosis. Clutching the report, my fingertips turned white, almost tearing the paper to shreds. As I walked out of the doctor's office, I collided with a soft embrace. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" A timid voice echoed, trembling with sobs. I looked up and saw a young woman in a white coat, the nameplate on her chest reading "Intern Doctor Ella Palmer." Her eyes were red, like a startled rabbit's, and in her hands she clutched another stack of reports. "Mrs. Bauer, I... I made a mistake!" Ella Palmer's voice shook violently. "That report isn't yours—it belongs to another patient with the same name!" I froze, as if my blood had suddenly started flowing again, and the chill in my limbs warmed slightly. "A mistake?" I stared at her, my voice dry. "Yes! It's all my fault for being careless and mixing up the reports when organizing them!" Ella Palmer apologized repeatedly, but then, shifting her tone, a hint of pride glinted in her eyes. "But Mrs. Bauer, I do know that Mr. Scott is in excellent health." My heart sank suddenly. "What do you mean?" "Mr. Scott had a physical examination not long ago," Ella's cheeks flushed, her tone filled with barely concealed admiration, "all his indicators were excellent, especially... sperm motility, which was extremely high, making him very suitable for fathering children." Her words were like a poisoned thorn, piercing sharply into my heart that had just begun to thaw. Rage instantly clouded my mind; I raised my hand and slapped Ella Palmer hard across the face. The sharp crack of the slap rang out distinctly in the quiet corridor.