After His Mistress Faked My Medical Report

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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 ridiculousI 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 yoursit 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.

Ella Palmer covered her face, her eyes wide with disbelief as she stared at me.

"How dare you hit me?" She screamed.

"I hit you!" I trembled with fury. "You misread the report and made me live in constant fear, and now you dare to spout nonsense here!"

"Yves!" Ella Palmer suddenly shouted behind me, her voice both wronged and piercing.

I snapped my head around and saw Yves Scott striding quickly toward us, his face dark and sullen.

He walked straight to Ella, placing her protectively behind him, his eyes filled with icy reproach as they turned to me.

"Serena, are you insane?" Yves's voice was like shards of ice in midwinter. "Why did you hit her?"

"Why did I hit her?" I laughed, tears welling in my eyes. "Go ask her what she did to me!"

"Yves, I didn't do it on purpose," Ella Palmer hid behind Yves Scott, sobbing, "I mixed up Mrs. Bauer's report and have already apologized, but Mrs. Bauer..."

"Enough!" Yves Scott interrupted sharply, fixing his gaze on me. "Even if she messed up the report, you shouldn't have hit her."

"Ella is still young and just an intern. It's normal for her to make mistakes. Can't you be a bit more understanding?"

Understanding?

Because of her mistake, I suffered the double blow of a cancer diagnosis and infertility, nearly breaking down.

And she flaunted my husband's private information right in front of me, yet in the end, I am the one who is blamed?

I watched Yves Scott protect Ella Palmer; his shoulders slightly hunched forward like a mountain, completely separating that girl from my fury.

At that moment, somewhere deep in my heart, it turned utterly cold.

Three years of marriageI thought it was a bond of mutual support through thick and thinshattered so easily by the provocation of a stranger.

"Yves," I took a deep breath, suppressing the lump in my throat, "I have nothing to say."

I turned and walked away without looking back.

Behind me, I heard Ella Palmer's quiet sobbing and Yves Scott's comforting voice; those sounds pricked my eardrums like needles.

When I returned to the company, my colleagues had already left.

I sat alone in the empty office, watching the neon lights outside flicker on one by one.

This was where Yves Scott and I had started our struggle together; he handled business negotiations, while I oversaw internal management. Countless late nights, we'd shared instant noodles and revised proposals side by side.

Back then, he would give me the only egg in his meal and say, "Serena, having you here is truly wonderful."

When did it start to change?

Perhaps after the company grew bigger, the flattery around him increased.

Perhaps he gradually forgot that when he couldn't even afford the rent, it was I who helped him through the difficulties with the savings my parents left me.

The phone was silentno calls from Yves Scott, nor any messages.

I gave a bitter smile to myself and began tackling the pile of documents.

Working until dawn, I finally dragged my exhausted body home.

The villa was pitch dark; Yves hadn't returned.

I didn't turn on the light. Feeling my way to the sofa's edge, I curled up in a corner and stayed awake all night.

The next morning, the ringing of my phone woke me up.

The screen displayed the name "Ella Palmer."

I immediately declined the call.

A few seconds later, the phone rang again.

I blocked the number.

I thought that would give me peace, but at noon, the front desk delivered a package to me.

The package was small; when I opened it, there was a pair of pink lace underwear inside.

The underwear had suspicious stains and a faint scent of perfumenot my brand.

Inside was a note, written in delicate yet piercing handwriting: "Serena, Yves said he prefers this style."

Clutching that pair of underwear, my stomach churned violently.

That Ella Palmer is shockingly arrogant.

Before I could compose myself, the office door was pushed open.

Yves Scott walked in, his expression darkened.

"Serena, haven't you gone too far?" He immediately questioned me, "Ella called to apologizewhy didn't you answer? Why did you block her?"

I threw the underwear and note onto the table before him, staring coldly: "See for yourself."

Yves's eyes fell on the underwear, his brow furrowing.

"She's just a girl, immature," he paused for a few seconds, then softened his tone, "Maybe she wanted to apologize to you but chose the wrong way."

"Don't stoop to her level. If you take it seriously, you've already lost."

A girl? Immature?

Provoking in such a vile manneris that what you call immature?

And he, my husband, his first reaction is to tell me to forgive her?

"Yves," I looked into his eyes, speaking deliberately and clearly, "In your eyes, is whatever she does always justified?"

"Am I always wrong no matter what I do?"

"You're just making a fuss," Yves Scott's patience seemed to have run out. "I don't have time to argue with you."

"You must apologize to Ella."

After saying that, he turned and walked away, giving me no chance to respond.

I stood rooted to the spot, feeling a cold chill wash over me.

That afternoon, I received a call from a friend at the hospital, saying that Ella Palmer had been admitted because she was "injured by me" and, due to "severe shock", had broken her leg.

I raised an eyebrow; the act was remarkably well played.

I told the driver to get the car ready, then called our bodyguard and asked him to come with me to the hospital.

Ella Palmer was staying in a VIP ward, surrounded by an elegant environment.

When I pushed the door open, she was leaning against the headboard, playing on her phone, her leg heavily plastered and looking pitiful.

"Serena, what are you doing here?" When she saw me, she immediately put down her phone. A flicker of panic crossed her eyes before shifting to a look of grievance.

"I know you're still angry, but I truly didn't mean to..."

I remained silent, walked to her bedside, and my gaze settled on her plastered leg.

"The doctor said you broke your leg?" My tone was flat.

"Yeah," Ella Palmer sniffled. "I came back from the hospital yesterday, feeling so unsettled, I wasn't paying attention going downstairs..."

Suddenly, I reached out and pressed hard on her "injured leg."

"Ah!" Ella Palmer screamed, her body instinctively recoiling, her eyes filled with terror.

"Ella," I said with a cold smile, "you're faking, aren't you?"

Her face went instantly pale, and she was speechless.

I waved my hand, and the bodyguard behind me immediately stepped forward.

"Smash the watch in her hand." I pointed to the limited-edition watch on Ella Palmer's wrist.

I've seen that watch before; Yves Scott just bought it a few days ago as a gift for a client. I never expected her to actually wear it.

The bodyguard stepped forward, snatched the watch, and slammed it hard onto the ground.

With a cracking sound, the expensive watch shattered instantly into pieces.

"No!" Ella screamed, trying to pick it up but was held back by the bodyguard's hand on her shoulder.

"Also," I looked into her terrified eyes and said slowly, "break her calf so she can truly feel what it's like to have a broken leg."

The bodyguard lifted his foot without hesitation and stomped hard on Ella Palmer's calf.

"Ah!" A piercing scream rang out through the entire hospital room.

Ella Palmer's face twisted in pain, large beads of sweat rolling down her forehead.

Just then, Yves Scott burst into the room.

Seeing the scene inside the hospital room, his eyes immediately reddened. He shoved the bodyguard aside and cradled Ella in his arms.

"Serena! You're crazy!" Yves Scott's voice was seething with rage. "This is a crime! I'm calling the police to have you arrested!"

"Crime?" I sneered, "Yves, she fakes illness to garner sympathy and still dares to provoke me with such despicable tricks. Isn't that wrong enough?"

"But you can't lay a hand on her!" Yves shouted furiously. "Do you even know how much pain she's in right now?"

"All I know is that my sincerity over these three years has hurt much more than her leg." I turned away, no longer watching him anxiously call for a doctor while holding Ella Palmer.

As I stepped out of the hospital, the sunlight was unbearably bright.

Sitting in the car, memories of meeting and falling in love with Yves Scott involuntarily flooded my mind.

We met at a university entrepreneurship competition. He wore a faded white T-shirt, yet his eyes shone brightly as he spoke passionately about his startup plan.

I was captivated by his talent and enthusiasm, so I took the initiative to add him to my contacts.

At that time, he was very insecure, always saying he had nothing at all.

I told him, "You have dreams, and that's enough. I will stand by you to make them come true."

After graduation, we rented a tiny apartment of less than ten square meters together.

In summer, without air conditioning, he would fan me with a hand fan; in winter, with no heating, he would tuck my hands into his embrace.

In the early days of his startup, funds were scarce. I withdrew all the 200,000 savings my parents had left and also borrowed 500,000 from my brother, Garrett Bauer.

To help him secure his first major client, I spent an entire night drinking with the client until I was violently sick, yet the next day I still forced myself to help him organize the contract.

The first financial software for his company was painstakingly developed by me, staying up late to learn programming bit by bit.

The company's rules and regulations were drafted and refined by me after consulting countless sources and making repeated revisions.

It can be said that everything Yves Scott has today is inseparable from my dedication.

But what about him?

After the company expanded, he started resenting my lack of gentleness, resenting that I always wore professional attire without any femininity, and resenting that I neglected to dress up because I was busy with work.

He forgot that the reason I became like this was entirely to help share his burden.

Back at home, Yves Scott was already there.

He sat on the living room sofa, his expression dark and unbearably grim.

"Serena, you must compensate Ella and also apologize to her." He spoke bluntly, his tone brooking no argument.

"Impossible." I refused outright, "She provoked me first; I'm only treating her as she treated me."