After He Faked His Death, I Chose to Live

A string of messages popped up on my phone, one after another.

They were from Victoria.

The photos showed a VIP hospital suite piled high with designer clothes, jewelry, and handbags from the latest season.

Nora, take a good look. This is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to how he spoils me.

I'll be honest with you. He and I never stopped seeing each other. The whole time he was stringing you along, he came to me every single night.

There's no right or wrong in love. The one who isn't loved is the real other woman.

I stood in the biting wind, tears dripping onto the screen. I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted copper, refusing to let a single sound escape.

Then my phone rang.

It was Margaret's attending physician.

"Miss Whitfield, your mother has gone into sudden cardiac arrest. It's critical. You need to get to the hospital immediately and sign the consent forms so we can operate ahead of schedule!"

Grief evaporated. I spun around and ran toward the hospital like a woman possessed.

The elevator wouldn't come. I turned and bolted for the stairwell.

I had barely reached the third floor when a swarm of people claiming to be reporters surged out of nowhere, boxing me in on every side.

"Miss Whitfield, we've heard that your obsession with Mr. Henson drove you to a mental breakdown, that you fabricated his death because you couldn't have him. Is that true?"

"Former classmates have come forward saying you're an orphan who grew up picking through trash to survive. Can you confirm?"

"You knew Mr. Henson was married, yet you continued to harass and slander him. What exactly are you after? Care to give the public an explanation?"

Camera flashes erupted in rapid bursts, searing my eyes until I couldn't keep them open.

The barrage of accusations drilled into my skull, filling my ears with a high-pitched ringing, splitting my head apart.

Sweat soaked through my clothes. I shoved at the wall of bodies surrounding me, my voice cracking, half-sob, half-plea.

"Please, just let me through! My mother is dying. She needs surgery right now. I'm begging you!"

They didn't move. They kept shouting questions, kept snapping photos, kept pressing me for the answers they'd already written.

In the shoving, my phone slipped from my hand, hit the floor, and was trampled beyond recognition.

I bent to pick it up and a palm cracked across my face so hard my vision went white.

"A shameless homewrecker like you doesn't deserve a mother. Using her as a prop for sympathy? You make me sick!"

The woman who struck me spat the words with venom, her eyes brimming with contempt and disgust.

My head swam. My cheek burned like it had been pressed against a hot stove. Despair and fury crashed through me in equal measure.

Security guards charged up the stairs, shouting.

"This is a hospital! Clear out now, or we're calling the police!"

The moment a gap opened, I threw myself up the remaining flights.

But the instant I burst through the door of the hospital room, every ounce of strength drained from my body.

Margaret lay still on the bed. Her face was the color of parchment, her lips completely bloodless.

Her attending physician stood at the bedside, his expression heavy with regret. When he saw me, he let out a quiet sigh.

"Miss Whitfield, I'm sorry. We did everything we could."

My pupils contracted. The room tilted, darkened at the edges, and my knees nearly buckled.

A nurse caught my arm and steadied me, her voice low.

"She was fine just an hour ago. Then a woman came into the room, said a few things to her, and they got into an argument. That's when she collapsed."

"When you didn't come to sign the consent forms, we activated the emergency protocol, but the donor backed out at the last minute."

Grief pressed down on my chest like a slab of concrete. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't cry. Not a single sound would come.

Slowly, I pulled free of the nurse's hands and moved to the bedside, one leaden step at a time. I took Margaret's hand. It was ice cold.

The woman who had given me warmth and strength when I had nothing left in the world would never open her eyes again.

I carried her to the funeral home myself. After the cremation, I laid her to rest in a quiet little cemetery, a simple burial in a peaceful plot of earth.

After kowtowing three times, I dragged my numb body to the River Bridge. Standing at the railing, I recorded a video and set it to publish on a timer, then uploaded it.

Without a shred of hesitation, I jumped.

At that moment, Anthony was in the obstetrics wing with Victoria for her prenatal checkup. The two of them were discussing baby names.

His assistant's call cut through the conversation, the voice on the other end frantic.

"Mr. Henson, something's happened. Miss Whitfield jumped off the bridge!"