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.”