The Story of Wendy Yaeger
My newlywed husband forces me, a late-stage liver cancer patient, to drink hard liquor just to please his secretary.
When the secretary later stages a setup, pretending to take a knife for him, she loses too much blood. In a panic, he demands that I give her a blood transfusion.
I name my price—ten million dollars.
He sneers. "Your blood really is worth its weight in gold, huh?"
Of course it is. A liver cancer patient's blood doesn't come cheap.
Later, when his precious secretary crashes into my car, he mocks me again. "You caused the accident on purpose, didn't you? Stop pretending—you just want more money. Wendy Yaeger, you disgust me."
I'm done. All I want now is to get that divorce certificate before I die, but he looks down at me with disdain. "Don't use such pathetic tricks to get my attention. You're not even qualified to negotiate with me."
Fine. Once I'm dead, the marriage will end on its own.