The Death Notice He Gave His Childhood Sweetheart

On our wedding day, Joel Mason told me that as the wife of a billionaire heir, I had to develop a thick skin. I had to get used to the cameras. So, when I miscarried, photos of me—pale and hemorrhaging—were plastered across the front page. When my parents died in a car crash, paparazzi blocked me at the funeral hall, shoving microphones in my face while I tried to mourn. Even the birth of our son was live-streamed. The intrusion was so severe I spiraled into postpartum depression. Because my "mental resilience was too poor," I was cursed onto the trending search lists yet again. Through it all, Joel ignored the public outcry. He simply posted a perfect family photo and stayed by my side. I thought he was my anchor. Until our son got into a car accident. The ambulance sat gridlocked behind a wall of paparazzi. They swarmed the vehicle, flashes blinding the driver, refusing to move an inch. Desperate, I grabbed a security guard's arm hard enough to bruise. "Drive them away! My son is dying!" The guard looked down, his expression apologetic but firm. "I can't, Mrs. Mason. These reporters were personally invited by Mr. Mason. We have no authority to remove them." My grip went slack. *That's impossible.* Joel was buried in meetings—he wouldn't do something so petty, so dangerous. But the next second, every lens turned in unison toward the stretcher where my unconscious child lay. "Mr. Mason's orders are clear. Reporter Henson needs fresh material." —— "She almost missed the scoop. Good thing the boss arranged enough bodies; we've got the crash site covered from every angle. No blind spots." A few feet away, Joel scrolled through the photos on his phone, his thumb swiping with critical satisfaction. "Good. Naomi is up for a promotion; she needs a headline that bleeds." The reporter next to him gauged Joel's expression carefully. "Mr. Mason, your wife has been keeping a low profile lately. If she stays this quiet, Reporter Henson won't have anything to write about." Joel's voice cut through the sterile hospital air like a blade. "If she's too quiet, I'll arrange some trouble for her. Just like today's accident." Leaning against the emergency exit doors, the blood drained from my face. A chill settled in my marrow, deeper than the winter wind. All my suffering—every scandal, every invasion of privacy—was orchestrated. I was just content fodder for Naomi Henson. And now, so was my son's life. A nurse burst through the double doors, grabbing my arm. Her eyes were wild with panic. "Mrs. Mason, you have to get rid of them! They've broken into the emergency room. We can't operate with them in the way!" I called security. I called the police. But the paparazzi surged forward like a tide, unstoppable. Trembling, I ran to the dean's office where Joel was taking a meeting. I didn't bother knocking. "Call them off." My voice cracked down the middle. "The doctor says Benjamin is critical. Make them leave!" Joel slowly removed his earphones. His expression didn't flicker. "It's just a few cameras, Anna. They aren't holding the doctor's scalpel. Benjamin is the heir to the Mason family; if he can't handle a little exposure, how will he survive in this world?" A dismissive wave. "It's a minor bump. Stop being dramatic." His assistant stepped forward, softly urging me to leave. Before I could scream, the office door swung open. Naomi Henson walked in, looking every inch the professional elite in a silk blouse and heels, a triumphant smile playing at her lips. She had come to share the news of her promotion. Her arrival drew eyes immediately; a passerby in the hall lifted a phone to snap a picture. Joel's face instantly darkened. He lunged forward, snatching the phone from the stranger's hand. "Delete it," he snarled. "The internet is too toxic. She has a gentle spirit; she isn't built for public scrutiny. Do not post her face online!" My throat turned to sandpaper. Naomi Henson couldn't be exposed. Couldn't be judged. Had to be shielded. But me? I had to be stripped of every shred of dignity for her career. *In Joel's eyes, what am I?* I walked out of the office like a corpse, moving only by muscle memory. Around the corner, I collided with the nurse. Her face was gray. "We... we were delayed too long," she whispered. "The rescue failed." A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. My knees buckled, and I collapsed to the cold tile floor. The paparazzi, finally grasping the gravity of what they'd done, lowered their cameras. Pale-faced, they slipped away one by one, like rats fleeing a sinking ship. From the lounge nearby, intimate laughter drifted out. Joel and Naomi were celebrating, oblivious to the silence in the hall. With the last ounce of strength left in my body, I dialed the number my father had left me. "I regret it," I rasped into the receiver. "Get me out of here."