Husband, Congratulations! I'm Dying

My body went cold. “Damon… what is this?” My voice barely came out. He came down from the stage and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. “You really don’t know? You killed my twin and Sylvia. Did you think I’d actually love you? I married you so you could suffer beside me forever.” Something in me snapped. I laughed loud and broken and smashed a champagne bottle over his head right in front of everyone. After that, our marriage was nothing but punishment. And that was when I finally understood. The man I had married wasn’t my savior. He was my warden. And every time I tried to leave him after that... every time I dared to whisper “divorce” he’d beat me until my body forgot how to move, until my voice forgot how to ask. In his world, love was ownership. And I was his property. For eight years. We just kept destroying each other, piece by piece. Now it was coming to an end. I looked at the cancer report in my hands. “Damon,” I said quietly, “can we stop fighting for once? Just for half a month. That’s all I have left anyway.” He stared at me like I’d told a joke. “You learned to lie now? You think death ends what you owe me?” I lowered my gaze. “You’ll see in half a month. I’ll give you your answer then.” He laughed, low and cruel. “Fine. I’ll wait. Let’s see how you plan to pay for two lives.” Then he took Harper’s hand and walked out of the auction hall. He didn’t come home that night. --- The next morning, every news outlet had their photos Damon Whitlocke, the mafia boss of the Eastern Quarter, leaving a hotel with Harper. She wore white, smiling softly, her eyes curved the same way Sylvia’s used to. Of course they were. Because Harper wasn’t born with that face. She made herself look like Sylvia. Surgery. Every curve, every angle copied from old pictures and gossip columns. Harper used to be my rival back in school. She hated me. Wanted what I had. Damon, money, attention and everything. I told him once. Told him the truth. That she wasn’t born like Sylvia, that she made herself look that way because she wanted to crawl into my sister’s ghost. He didn’t believe me. He said, “You’re jealous.” Then he told me I was pathetic for comparing myself to a dead woman. After that, I stopped talking about it. I put my phone down and finished my breakfast slowly. My stomach hurt, but it always did. Pain was nothing new. The front door slammed open. Damon walked in, wearing a dark suit and that same cold authority everyone feared. His men waited outside, heads down. He frowned when he saw me still at the table. “Why are you still here?” I didn’t answer. He smirked. “Didn’t you say you’d give me an explanation in half a month? Why aren’t you getting ready for that?” Before I could speak, my stomach twisted hard. A sour, metallic taste filled my mouth. I pushed my chair back and ran to the bathroom. I barely reached the sink before I started vomiting then blood came out. I hurriedly flashed the blood away. The maid gasped. “Madam! Are you… pregnant?” Damon’s face changed instantly. He stormed in and grabbed my wrist hard enough to hurt. “You’re pregnant?” His voice dropped, cold and sharp. “Two months ago. That night. Don’t tell me this is your plan—to use a baby to make me forgive you.” I pulled my hand free. “Don’t worry,I’m not pregnant. And even if I was, I’d never keep your child.” He didn’t believe me. His jaw tightened. “We’re going to the hospital. Now.” “I said I’m not going!” He grabbed my arm again, rougher this time. And that’s when I realized no matter how little time I had left, Damon would never let me go in peace. His brows drew together. That same look he gave men before ordering their execution. “Since when are you scared of hospitals? What’s wrong with you today? You really are sick in the head.” “Yeah,” I said, laughing weakly. “I’m sick. You finally got that right.” He stared at me for a second, then his tone went cold. “Fine. You don’t wanna go? Then don’t.” He turned to the maid and said flatly, “Go bring some abortion pills.” My heart dropped. “Damon, don’t—” But the maid was already hurrying off. She came back with a bowl of something dark, thick, and bitter-smelling. Damon walked over and grabbed my chin, “Drink it.” “I said I’m not pregnant!” I tried to push him away, but he shoved the rim of the bowl against my lips. The liquid burned down my throat before I could spit it out. It felt like fire in my stomach. The pain hit fast, sharp, twisting, and unbearable. I fell to the floor, clutching my belly, the sweat running cold down my back. Then came the metallic taste. I coughed hard and blood spilled out of my mouth then everything went dark. I heard him shouting my name somewhere far away. But it sounded like it was underwater. When I came to, I could barely move. “She’s not pregnant,” a man was saying. “Why on earth did she take abortion pills? Her stomach’s severely damaged. We need to pump it immediately.” The cold tube slid down my throat. I wanted to scream but all that came out was a strangled sound. The pain was unbearable, tearing through my insides. I could feel my stomach cramping and burning at the same time. “Hang in there,” a nurse murmured near my ear. I bit my lip until I tasted blood and gripped the sheet as hard as I could. By the time they pushed me out of the operating room, I was half-conscious. The lights above me blurred as they rolled the stretcher down the hall. I heard the doctor’s voice again, cautious this time. “Mr. Whitlocke, your wife’s condition is much worse than expected.”

“What do you mean worse?” Damon sounded irritated. “It’s just a stupid pill. You pumped her stomach already, didn’t you? She’ll live.” The doctor hesitated. “It’s not just that. The tests show signs of late-stage—” “I already know,” I croaked, cutting him off. “No need to tell him. He doesn’t care.” I turned my head away. I couldn’t look at Damon. He gave a small, cold laugh. “You’re right. I don’t. As long as you’re not dead, I’m fine.” He turned to leave, but his phone rang. I could hear the woman’s voice through the speaker: sweet, soft, disgusting. “Damon? Where are you? I miss you.” He glanced at me, then smiled faintly. “At the hospital. Come here if you miss me that much.” When he hung up, he looked at me again, smirking. “Didn’t you say you wanted me to stay with you for the next two weeks? Guess your wish is coming true.” I didn’t answer. I just closed my eyes. My whole body was shaking. A few minutes later, the door opened and Harper walked in. She froze when she saw me on the bed, then quickly looked down and walked straight to Damon. He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Come here,” he murmured before kissing her, right there in front of me. She kissed him back deeper and the sound of it made my stomach twist harder than the medicine ever did. Something in me snapped. I grabbed the vase on the bedside table and hurled it at them. “Get out!” My voice cracked. “Get the hell out of my room!” The vase shattered. Damon turned fast, blocking Harper with his arm, but a shard still grazed her cheek. A thin line of blood appeared. He glared at me. She gasped and clung to him like a scared child. “Damon…” Harper covered her cheek with both hands, tears spilling down her face. “My face—it hurts…” I watched the way Damon froze. His whole expression changed, like someone had punched the air out of him. Then that panic came—real, desperate panic. The kind I never got to see. He rushed to her side, lifted her into his arms as if she’d break. “Don’t touch it. You’ll make it worse.” He turned to the guards, “Get the head of dermatology. No, forget it, call the top foreign doctors. Use the helicopter if you have to! Now!” They scattered instantly. I just sat there, leaning against the cold metal bedrail, watching him disappear down the hallway with Harper in his arms. His voice echoed from afar—“Make sure she heals clean. No scars, do you hear me?” The sound of it felt like a knife scraping over my ribs, slow and dull. I looked down at my hands. The back of them was full of tiny purple bruises from needles. My fingers were shaking, but I still laughed—quiet, dry, bitter. Harper only looked a little like Sylvia. Just enough to fool him. Just enough for him to lose his mind over her. And me the woman he married could bleed out right in front of him, and he wouldn’t even blink. My stomach twisted again, sharp pain spreading through me. I curled up and waited for it to pass, the thin hospital gown sticking to my skin with sweat. The next few days blurred together. Pills, injections, pain. Everything hurt. I was so thin I could see the outline of my ribs. My hair came off in handfuls. Even the nurses looked at me with pity, sometimes slipping extra painkillers into my IV. I didn’t ask. I didn’t thank them either. Then one afternoon, the door slammed open. Damon stormed in, his face like thunder. Before I could sit up, he yanked me off the bed by the arm. “Harper almost lost her face because of you!” His voice was cold enough to make my skin crawl. “Are you proud of yourself now?” I could barely stand. “It was just a scratch,” I whispered. His hand tightened. “Shut up! You think you can hurt her and get away with it?” He dragged me down the hall. I stumbled after him, too weak to fight back. Two bodyguards followed close behind. When we reached the staircase, I saw broken glass scattered all over the steps. My heart dropped. “Damon—what are you doing?” He didn’t even look at me. “You like causing pain, right? Let’s see how you handle it.” He nodded to the guards. “Do it.” I clung to the railing, breath trembling. “She’s not Sylvia! You’re losing your mind!” He finally looked at me, eyes wild. “She doesn’t need to be Sylvia. She just needs to look like her.” “Damon—” He gestured. The guard shoved me hard. Pain exploded through my body as I hit the stairs, glass digging into my skin. I couldn’t even scream properly; all that came out was a choked sound. Blood ran down the steps in a slow trail. Before I could even lift my head, another push came. Then another. By the third fall, I couldn’t move anymore. The taste of blood filled my mouth. My chest burned. I heard someone shouting, then nothing but ringing in my ears. When I woke up, I was back in the hospital. Everything hurt. My body, my chest, even breathing. Outside the curtain, two nurses were whispering. “Miss Harper’s fine already,” one said softly. “President Whitlocke’s been by her side every day. He treats her like she’s made of glass.” The other sighed. “And the woman in bed 302... she’s covered in bruises. No one even visits her. Isn’t she his real wife?” “Shh, don’t talk about it. You’ll get in trouble.” Their voices faded as they walked away. I closed my eyes. My throat burned, but no sound came out. Tears just slipped down the sides of my face, soaking into the pillow. I stayed a few more days, but there was no point anymore. The painkillers barely worked. The doctors couldn’t help. So one morning, I signed myself out.

If I was going to die, I didn’t want to do it here alone, under white lights, waiting for him to remember I existed. When I got home, Damon was sitting on the couch, flipping through something on his phone. He glanced at me, expression flat, and stood to walk toward his study like I wasn’t even there. “Damon,” I called out softly, leaning against the wall for balance. My voice cracked. “It’s my birthday the day after tomorrow.” He stopped, turned his head slightly. “So?” “I just… I want to spend it with you. One last time.” His brow twitched. “Last time? What, are you dying or something?” I smiled weakly. “Maybe. Can I?” He snorted, shaking his head. “Fine. I’ll give you a surprise you’ll never forget.” His tone dripped with sarcasm. I knew that look... he was planning something cruel. Two days later, I showed up at the hotet that he texted me. The moment I opened the door, my legs almost gave out. The entire hall was white and cold, filled with wreaths of chrysanthemums. A coffin sat in the middle. My photo hung on the wall, framed in black ribbon. Guests in black suits turned to look at me. Nobody said a word. “Do you like it?” Damon’s voice came from the corner. He stepped out of the crowd, smirking. “A funeral for your birthday. Thought it suited you.” I stared at my picture, my lips trembling. Then I laughed. “Y-yeah. I love it.” He froze, just for a second. “If you love it that much, stay still,” he said coldly, waving his hand. His friends came over, each holding incense sticks, grinning like hyenas. “The sooner you go, the better.” “Don’t haunt Nikolai in your next life, okay?” “Have a safe trip.” Their laughter filled the room. I just stood there, smiling like it didn’t hurt. Maybe it really didn’t anymore. When it was over, I turned to leave, but Damon grabbed my arm. “What’s your game?” he hissed. “My game?” I repeated quietly. “Why aren’t you fighting back? You always scream, break things, cry. Why trying to act pitiful now?” I met his eyes. “It’s not humiliation anymore. I actually like what you did.” Because this time, it felt real. Like a rehearsal for what was coming. He stared at me for a long time, confusion flickering across his face, then scoffed. “You’re getting creative now. But it won’t work, Rhea. I’ll never forgive you.” I didn’t reply. I just looked at him until he looked away first and stormed out. .... When I got home, the pain hit so hard I couldn’t breathe. I stumbled into the bathroom, barely made it to the sink before blood spilled from my mouth. The red splattered across the tiles like paint. I rinsed it away, took my pills with shaking hands, and slid into the bathtub. The hot water felt good for a while. When I tried to comb my hair later, a handful came off with the brush. Is this really me? I stared at my reflection. Hollow cheeks. Pale lips. I smiled bitterly. I wasn’t sure I’d make it another two weeks. The next morning, I went to a small photo studio downtown. It smelled of old wood and film. The old man behind the counter looked up, startled. “You want what?” “A m-memorial photo,” I said simply. “Something nice. Something that looks like me when I was still alive.” He hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Alright. I’ll make sure it’s beautiful.” I put on a red dress I hadn’t worn in years. Painted my lips. Smiled into the camera like I used to: bright, proud, pretending the world hadn’t beaten me down. When it was done, the man asked, “You want to take it home after it’s developed?” I shook my head. “No. Just fix it a bit and send it to this address.” I wrote it down. It was my home address. I wanted my photo to be beside my sister’s... so at least in death, I’d still look like I belonged somewhere. ... The ancestral hall smelled like dust and old incense and I stood in front of Slyvia and Nikola's portraits, fingers resting on the black frame like it was the only thing holding me to them. Sylvia’s smile looked like it always did; soft, the kind that made the world slow down. Nikolai’s eyes were the same calm I used to hide in as a child. I whispered, barely audible, “I’ll be with you soon.” I pressed my forehead to the glass for a second and let a single tear fall onto the altar. “This stupid feud,” I said to the empty room, “it’s almost over.” “You think you can come in here whenever you want?” Damon’s voice cut through the quiet like a slap. He was behind me before I could turn. I jumped and my elbow hit the frame. The glass shattered with a sharp crack that seemed to echo forever. He didn’t look surprised. He looked furious. He grabbed my wrist hard enough to bruise. “You already killed them! Now you break their things too?” “I d-didn’t mean to,” I stuttered, pulling back. “You scared me. If you hadn’t snuck up—” “Save it.” He shoved me forward. “You’ve got no right to touch any of it.” “I came to see them. Is that a crime?” He laughed, “See them? You don’t deserve to look at them.” Before I could get my footing, two guards stepped up. I hit the doorframe with my knee and almost fell. “Let me go,” I shouted, “Damon, are you out of your mind?” “You’re the one who’s crazy,” he said, and before I could brace myself one of the guards forced me down toward the center of the hall. “Since you want to stay, then stay here and atone.” I struggled. “I’ll atone in my own way. This isn’t how—” He didn’t let me finish. His boot came down on my knee so fast the pain knocked the breath out of me.

I screamed. I hit the broken glass and felt hot lines cutting my skin. Blood soaked the skirt. Someone called his name softly. “Damon.” Harper stood in the doorway, “I’m sorry. Did I come at a bad time?” She looked like she might cry. She lifted her foot and it slipped. A candlestick tipped over and the flame caught the scattered photos. The portraits curled at the edges, then blackened. Paper turned to smoke. Nikolai and Sylvia’s faces burned until only ash drifted into the air. Damon’s face changed in a way that pulled something in me apart. He froze, then scooped Harper into his arms like she’d just broken. “I didn’t mean to,” she blurted, tears starting to fall. “I didn’t mean to! Please don’t be angry.” For a second he was nothing but panic. He wiped her cheeks like a man who’d been taught that soothing hands could fix anything. “It’s okay,” he murmured into her hair. “It’s fine.” That look... how he softened, how he rushed felt like a blade twisting in my chest. I ripped free of the guard’s grip and shoved him hard. “Wake up! She’s not Sylvia! She’s a cheap copy who had surgery just to look like my sister.” Damon’s face shut down into something cold and hard. He grabbed my wrist so tight I thought my bones might crack. “I know she is not,” he said, voice low. “I know. But can you bring Sylvia back to me? No!” I opened my mouth and nothing came out. I wanted to scream that she was dead, that nothing could fix this, but all I could taste was metal. Tears filled my eyes. He was so close I could see the steam rising from his skin. “Tie her up,” he ordered. He stepped back and watched like a judge. They bound my hands with coarse rope and forced me to my knees in the center of that hall, the place I used to run wild as a kid. My wrists chafed, my dress was soaked with blood, and the smoke from the burned photos stung my nostrils. I knelt there while he cradled the woman I’d loved him into hating. I knelt while the family portraits blackened into nothing. I knelt and thought about how long I’d been falling and how there might not be any ground left to hit. When Damon walked out with Harper, he didn’t even look back at me. The door slammed shut so hard it shook the floor. Darkness filled the ancestral hall. The ropes cut into my wrists as I fell to the ground. My knees hit cold stone, and tears just… fell on their own. I looked up at what was left of Sylvia’s portrait. Half of it had burned away. The part with her smile was gone. I laughed through the tears. “You see that, sister?” My voice was shaking. “He can’t even tell what’s real anymore.” I leaned my head against the floor, whispering to no one. “I’ll see you soon. When I get there, tell him yourself, okay? Tell him how stupid he’s become.” Outside, I could faintly hear Damon’s footsteps. The faint click of his lighter followed, over and over. He smoked like he was trying to burn the air. I imagined Harper’s voice next... sweet, high, the kind that used to make him melt. “Damon, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?” “Go home,” he said flatly. “But I want to stay with you—” “I said go.” She left eventually. I heard her heels fading down the hallway, one by one. Then there was silence. He stayed there, though. I could feel it. Maybe he was staring at the door, maybe thinking about breaking it open. But he didn’t. He left me there like he always did. I don’t remember falling asleep. When they finally untied me, the sun was already setting again. My legs wouldn’t move right. My knees were black and blue, and my back ached like someone had taken a bat to it. A servant tried to help me, but I shook my head. “Don’t. I’m going out.” They looked scared to argue. I didn’t have much time left anyway. I just wanted to see my parents once. Just once. I stood across the street from the old house. The lights were on inside, warm and soft, like they used to be. For a moment, I almost turned back. But the door opened. The old housekeeper gasped when he saw me. “Miss Rhea? My God, it’s really you—” Before he could finish, my father came out. His face went pale, then red. “Who told you to come here?” “D-dad…” “Get out!” he shouted. “You killed Sylvia, and you still have the face to come back?” My mother stormed out behind him with a belt. “We don’t have a daughter like you! You’re cursed!” She swung it hard. The belt hit my back again and again. I didn’t move. I didn’t even block it. “I just wanted to see you,” I whispered. “Just for a minute.” “What’s there to see?” He kicked my leg. “Go back to your husband. Go die there if you must!” Die? I smiled bitterly and nodded. The rain started suddenly, pouring down, turning the ground to mud. I slipped when they shoved me. The belt fell from my mother’s hand, but she didn’t reach for me. I stayed there, on my knees. Then I bowed three times, forehead touching the wet pavement each time. “Take care of yourselves,” I said quietly. “I won’t bother you again.” Then I turned away. The rain got heavier. It soaked me until I couldn’t tell the difference between tears and rainwater. I just kept walking. I didn’t even know where I was going. A car slowed beside me, black and sleek, headlights cutting through the downpour. The window rolled down. Damon’s face appeared, stone cold, cigarette between his fingers. He looked at me like I was just another stranger on the street. "Get in the car," he ordered.

Why should I? I might ruined his car seat... So, I kept walking in the rain, pretending I didn’t hear him. The sound of my wet shoes slapping against the pavement was the only thing I wanted to listen to. “If you don’t get in,” Damon said behind me, “I’ll drag you in myself. Choose.” I froze. Then the car door opened with a loud click. I didn’t want to fight. I just got in. The moment I sat down, water dripped from my hair and soaked into the leather seat. I tried to sit as small as I could in the corner, hugging my knees, shaking. He gave me one look and scoffed. “You really are pathetic. Even your own parents kicked you out. Guess they finally saw what kind of person you are.” I didn’t say anything. Just looked out the window. The rain on the glass looked like veins, spreading everywhere, bleeding light. He didn’t drive us home. We stopped in front of some fancy club instead. My throat tightened. “Why are we here?” He smirked and opened my door. “Come on. Let’s play.” “I don’t want to.” “Didn’t ask what you wanted.” He grabbed my arm. “Don’t act scared now.” Inside, the lights were dim. The music was too loud. Harper was sitting in the middle, in her usual white dress, smiling like she owned the world. When she saw Damon, her face lit up. “There you are! We’ve been waiting forever. Let’s play some games!” Her friends screamed in agreement, half-drunk already. “Losers get punished!” It started as truth or dare, or maybe some twisted version of it. It didn't matter. Damon and Harper “accidentally” lost in the first round. “We should make them drink the wedding cup!” someone shouted. The girls giggled and pushed the glasses forward. Harper’s face was already pink from wine. Damon looked at me, smiling like he wanted me to break, and raised the glass. They lost again. This time one of the girls drew a card and grinned. “Five-minute kiss. Deep. No cheating.” The room burst into cheers. Before I could blink, Damon’s hand was on the back of Harper’s head, kissing her like the world wasn’t watching. I sat there, hands trembling under the table. My stomach burned even though all I drank was water. The last punishment was worse. They made him lift Harper up and spin her like a princess. Everyone screamed and clapped. Harper’s laugh filled the whole room, loud and sweet, like she knew I was watching. And he kept glancing at me. Waiting for a reaction. Waiting for me to cry or scream or run. But I didn’t. I just sipped my water and stood up. “Bathroom,” I muttered. The hem of my dress brushed his knee as I walked past. In the bathroom, I turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on my face. The woman in the mirror looked like she’d already died. Pale lips. Empty eyes. When I pushed the door open, Harper was leaning against the wall outside, blocking the way. “Still pretending to be calm?” she said, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “You should’ve seen Damon before we came. He said he was going to make you lose face tonight.” I tried to walk around her. “Move.” She grabbed my wrist. “You think you’re still Mrs. Whitlocke? He told me he only married you to get revenge. You’re nothing but a placeholder.” I turned, staring straight into her smug face. “He can hurt me all he wants. But you?” I stepped closer, voice low and steady. “You’re just a stand-in for a dead woman. You really think that’s something to be proud of?” Her smile twitched, then sharpened. “At least I’m alive. You won’t be, not for long.” My eyes narrowed. “What did you say?” She laughed softly. “You really think your pancreatic cancer was bad luck? Poor thing. Those vitamins you took every morning?” She leaned close, her breath brushing my ear. “I switched them. Months ago. Same brand, same bottle... only mine had a little something extra. Toxin. Slow poison. It burns your pancreas from the inside out.” My stomach turned cold. She smiled wider, eyes glinting with triumph. “I wanted to watch you rot from the inside. And guess what? It worked.” “How dare you!” "Yes, how dare me.” She grabbed my collar and raised her hand, ready to strike. But then her eyes flicked over my shoulder. She froze. Damon. Her face changed instantly into panic replacing venom. She shoved herself backward and screamed. “Ahhh!” She hit the floor, clutching her forehead. Blood spilled through her fingers. Damon rushed over, furious, scooping her up. “Rhea!” His voice shook with rage. “You killed your sister, and now you want to kill her too? Do you even know she’s the closest I could find to Sylvia?” The siren of an ambulance wailed somewhere outside. He carried Harper out carefully, holding her like she was made of glass. Before he got into the car, he turned and glared at me. “If she dies, Rhea, I’ll make sure you live wishing you didn’t.” ... When the car drove off, I stood on the steps, the rain falling harder, soaking through everything. Then I laughed. Damon hates me, his mistress poisoned me... What's there to left? “Life worse than death,” I whispered. “You think I haven’t been living it already?” I walked home alone. Damon didn’t call that night. Didn’t show up either. But I knew he would. He always did. At three in the morning, the sound of the front door being kicked open echoed through the villa. The sound of the door slamming open jolted me awake. Before I could move, Damon was already beside the bed. His face was dark, eyes colder than I’d ever seen. He yanked the blanket off me and grabbed my wrist. “Get up.” His voice cut like ice. “You’re going to the hospital.” I blinked at him, confused and half-asleep. “What—why?” He didn’t answer. Just pulled harder. “Damon, stop, you’re hurting me!” He turned, eyes burning. “Harper needs blood. You have the same type. You’re coming with me.” My stomach twisted. “I didn’t push her. It wasn’t me—” “Shut up.” He shoved me toward the door. “You’ll do what you’re told.” The ride was silent. Rain slid down the car window, and I counted each drop to keep from crying. At the hospital, the fluorescent lights were too bright. Everything looked white and sick. Damon dragged me straight to a small room where a nurse waited. The nurse took one look at me, hesitated. “Sir, she’s too pale. We can’t draw blood from her right now.” “Why not?” Damon snapped. The nurse flipped through my chart, frowning. “She has a serious medical condition. Late-stage cancer.” “What?”

For a second, I thought maybe he’d finally stop. Maybe he’d look at me and see that I was already dying. Instead, he laughed. “Cancer? That’s the best excuse you could come up with? You even bribed the nurse?” I stared at him, my lips parting, but no words came. “Enough.” He pushed me down into the chair. “Do it.” The needle went in. My body trembled. The room spun, and I felt the warmth leave me bag by bag. Damon’s voice sounded far away. “Take more. Harper needs it.” I don’t remember when I blacked out. The last thing I saw was his back as he walked toward another room... toward her. When I woke up, a nurse was changing my IV. She sighed softly. “Miss Rhea, why didn’t you tell him? Donating that much blood... it’s dangerous for someone in your condition.” I stared at the ceiling. “It w-wouldn’t matter,” I said quietly. “He wouldn’t believe me anyway.” All day I lay there, listening to nurses whisper outside. “Mr. Whitlocke hasn’t slept all night. He’s been taking care of Miss Harper himself.” “Yeah, he even feeds her and wipes her face like she’s a child. So gentle.” I couldn’t listen anymore. I pulled out the IV and left. ... When I got home, my phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Harper had sent photos, dozens of them. Damon sitting beside her bed, spoon-feeding her porridge, brushing her hair back, fixing her blanket. His face soft, the way it never was with me. I stared for a long time. Then I smiled. In his heart, Damon only ever loved three people. My sister. The woman he thought I was. And now, her replacement. I went to the drawer and took out the lighter. One by one, I threw everything into the brazier. The gifts he’d given me when he pretended to love me. The photos we took when I still believed him. The necklaces we once called “matching.” The fire caught quickly. It smelled like endings. When the door burst open, I didn’t even turn. “What the hell are you burning?” His voice was sharp. Heavy footsteps came closer. He grabbed my neck, slamming me against the wall. “Who told you you could touch Sylvia’s things?” I couldn’t breathe. My hands clawed at his wrist, but he only tightened his grip. Then he threw me down. The brazier overturned, sparks flying across the floor. “Listen, Rhea,” he shouted. “If you ever touch Sylvia’s things again, I’ll make you regret being alive.” Before I could answer, he grabbed my wrist and forced it into the burning brazier. The pain was instant, unbearable. My scream tore through the room. The smell of my skin burning filled the air. I fought, thrashing, reaching for anythin and my hand found a small stone from the shelf. I swung. The sound was dull but hard. He staggered back, cursing. I pulled my arm out, shaking. My skin was blistered and red, flesh raw. “Look,” I said, my voice shaking. “Look carefully, Damon!” I pointed at the half-burned photo on the floor. “I was burning my own things. Not hers. Are you blind?” He froze, eyes flicking to the photo. Our photo. The one where I was smiling beside him. Half of it was already gone. My face was disappearing in the flames. He looked... shocked. For once, he had nothing to say. Then his phone rang. He answered, and Harper’s voice came through, soft and crying. “Damon, my wound... it’s bleeding again. It hurts.” His expression changed. He turned toward the door. “Burn it all,” he said flatly. “Burn every bit of your trash.” He paused before leaving. Didn’t even look back. “And for the record,” he added, his tone quiet but cruel, “every second I was near you made me sick.” The door slammed. I sat there on the floor, staring at the ashes. The room smelled like smoke and blood. My arm throbbed, but I didn’t move. Because what was left to save? The door slammed so hard the walls shook. Then everything went quiet. I just sat there in front of the dying fire, watching the last of the flames turn to ash. The room smelled like smoke and burned skin. My wrist throbbed where he’d pressed it into the brazier, the skin cracked and raw. By the time morning light slipped through the curtains, I still hadn’t moved. My whole body felt heavy, like I’d already died and just hadn’t realized it yet. I dragged myself to the bathroom. The woman in the mirror didn’t look like me anymore. My face was pale, my eyes hollow. The burn on my wrist looked like some ugly centipede curling around my skin. I stared at it for a long time before looking away. Maybe this was how people looked when they were close to the end. Damon didn’t come home the next day. Or the day after that. Or the next. But the TV wouldn’t let me forget him. Every news channel showed him smiling beside Harper; buying her a luxury villa, holding her hand at some charity dinner, kissing her under flashbulbs like we’d never existed. I turned the TV off. The silence was louder than the noise. I picked up my phone and called him. “Beep… beep…” It rang so long I almost hung up. Then his voice came through, “What is it?” There was laughter in the background. Harper’s. I could hear her giggling about something, calling his name. “Come home,” I said quietly. “No time.” I swallowed. “The two weeks are up. I’m ready to tell you what I promised.” There was a pause. I could hear him breathing on the other end. Then he laughed, sharp and cruel. “Rhea, how long are you going to keep using that lie? You think I’ll still fall for it?” “I’m not lying, Damon. Just listen—” “Enough.” His voice snapped through the speaker like a whip. “I’m on vacation with Harper. I’m done wasting time on your games.” Then the line went dead. I stared at the phone for a long time before I started laughing. It sounded strange... like it was coming from someone else. The laughter hurt, and somewhere between the sound and the silence, I realized I was crying. “That’s it then,” I whispered. “That’s the last time.” Outside, the sky was turning gold. I changed into a red dress, our favorite color and looked around the house one last time. Eight years. It was supposed to be a home. It ended up feeling like a cage. I closed the door behind me softly, like I didn’t want to wake the ghosts. The taxi dropped me off at the bridge. I stood there, the wind cold against my face, my hair sticking to my lips. The river shimmered under the streetlights. It was almost beautiful. This was where it all began. Where Nikolai and Sylvia died. I leaned on the railing and closed my eyes. I could still hear their voices; Sylvia shouting through the rain, “Rhea, pick up the phone!” And Nikolai gripping the wheel, trying to steady the car. I remember the headlights. The screech of tires. The crash. My fault. “If I hadn’t run away that night,” I whispered, “you’d still be alive.” The pain hit me suddenly, sharp in my stomach. I bent forward and coughed up blood. It hit the bridge, bright against the red of my dress. It looked like flowers. “Nikolai... Sylvia...” I smiled weakly, feeling the world blur. “I’m coming.” The wind picked up. My dress whipped around my legs. I stepped closer to the edge and closed my eyes. The sunset bled across the sky, gold sinking into red. Then I let go. The last thing I felt was the rush of air, the chill of water swallowing me whole.