My Blood Buried Her Lies

After I refused to help my childhood friend use connections to get a backdoor promotion, he stormed off in his car to cool down—and got hit by a semi.

When my wife found out, she beat me bloody. Depression swallowed her whole, and then came the cancer diagnosis.

Guilt drove me to quit my job. I went home to care for her, let her humiliate me, hit me, even let my dead friend's buddies take their revenge.

To pay for her treatment, I sold the apartment. Then the car. Still not enough.

My mom picked up three jobs to help. Worked herself to the bone, day and night, until she collapsed right at our front door.

She died with the money still clenched in her fist. Her last words? Use this for your wife's treatment.

I shattered. Wanted to follow her. But the debts weren't paid, so I couldn't die yet.

Then one night, working a temp shift at a bar, I saw them.

My childhood friend—who was supposed to be dead—holding my wife—who was supposed to be dying—partying like nothing was wrong.

"That idiot Julian is probably still losing sleep over his guilt!"

"Isabel, you genius—faking my death, faking your cancer, watching him crawl from executive to day laborer."

"Mmm, you helped me get my revenge... I feel so bad for my Julian now. Maybe it's time to stop."

"I don't want to abuse my Julian anymore."

——

The tray slipped from my hands. Blood surged up my throat, and I couldn't hold it back—I spat it onto the floor.

The wine glasses shattered against the man beside me.

Jacob Delgado's friend.

"You again, you piece of shit." Henry Fox's face twisted with disgust. "Getting my friend killed wasn't enough? Now you're after the rest of us?"

He grabbed a liquor bottle and smashed it over my head without hesitation.

"Jacob wasn't as clever as you," he spat. "He thought your connections could help him, but you refused. Even used him as a cautionary tale—told everyone about it. Made him a laughingstock."

"He drove off angry. Wasn't watching the road. Got hit and died in the street."

"His soul is still out there waiting for you, murderer. When are you going down to keep him company?!"

The music cut out. Laughter died. Everyone stared.

Blood dripped from my split forehead, soaking my shirt. I looked like a wreck.

But I barely noticed the wound. My legs gave out.

A few days ago—the day my mom died—I found out I had stomach cancer. Late-stage.

To pay for Isabel Harding's treatment, I couldn't bring myself to buy even one bottle of medicine for myself. Saved every penny for her.

And now reality laughed in my face: she was never sick. My friend was never dead.

The ones who died were my mom. And me.

If they hadn't lied, I never would've quit. Never would've walked away from a six-figure career to wait hand and foot on a woman who made cruelty an art form.

"Get up and apologize. Now."

Henry kicked my curled-up body, glancing back at Jacob and Isabel's table for approval.

Jacob raised his glass with a smirk. Isabel gave a small nod—one last time.

They still didn't know I'd seen them.

With her permission, Henry went wild.

He ground his heel into my hand and twisted.

"You want to know why I hate this trash? His selfishness killed my friend. Jacob's dead, and this bastard's still breathing. Tell me—how could I not hate him?"