I watched my husband, Arthur, order the nurses to shove my severely ill mother out of her VIP ward. "Important patients must be prioritized," he said coldly, clearing the room just so the wealthy heiress, Chloe, could rest a scratched finger. Chloe's triumphant smirk confirmed their illicit affair. I arranged my mother's transfer and threw a divorce agreement on his desk. Arthur mocked my permanently crippled right hand, threatening to leave me penniless and cut off my mother's treatment. Turning away, I packed my secret clinical logs and permanently severed the exclusive micro-earpiece frequency that built his reputation. Tomorrow, he would perform a complex surgery without my voice guiding his scalpel. Armed with the secret audio recordings of my past instructions, I waited to see how the fake miracle doctor would handle a sudden hemorrhage alone.