Husband, Congratulations! I'm Dying

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.