My Faked Death, His Endless Torment

Ela Campbell POV:

King froze. His powerful shoulders tensed, and his eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, seemed to lose focus for a brief moment. His gaze drifted past me, landing on the small, silver locket I had placed on the dusty bedside table. The worn initials, E.C. + K.H., seemed to mock him from the tarnished metal.

Then, the moment passed. His eyes hardened again, the brief flicker of confusion replaced by a familiar cold indifference. "Don't try to manipulate me, Ela. We agreed. No children until the merger was fully integrated. It was a mutual decision." His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

"Mutual?" A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "You told me it was 'ill-timed.' You said we needed to focus on the business. You said we had plenty of time after the deal was done." My voice cracked. "Remember when you promised we'd visit the seaside cottage every summer once we had a family? The one with the little garden you loved?"

He turned away, a dismissive wave of his hand. "Childish fantasies, Ela. We had important things to discuss. Business matters."

"Important things?" I felt a desperate need to make him see, to make him remember. "Do you remember the date of our engagement, King? Do you remember my birthday? Do you remember the first time you said you loved me?" My voice rose, a desperate cry against his impenetrable indifference. "You forgot them all. Every single one. But I bet you remember Isabel's promotion date, don't you? Her favorite flower? The exact shade of lipstick she wears?"

His head whipped around, his eyes blazing with a dangerous fury. "Enough, Ela! This self-pity is pathetic. I have a company to run, a legacy to uphold. I can't be bothered with trivial dates and sentimental nonsense." He jabbed a finger in my direction. "And as for Isabel, she's a valuable asset to Hayes Industries. She works hard. She doesn't spend her days wallowing in self-pity and fabricating illnesses for attention."

"You're right," I said, the fight draining out of me. My shoulders slumped. "I am pathetic. I am a burden. I am everything you say I am." I turned my back to him, the last sliver of hope shriveling and dying inside me. I couldn't look at him anymore. I couldn't bear the contempt in his eyes.

"The annulment papers are on the desk in the study," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "Signed. Mr. Thompson has them. They'll be official by midnight. Read them then, if you care."

He stood there for a long moment, a silent, imposing presence. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out, his footsteps heavy and final. The door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the dusty guest room, surrounded by the ghosts of my forgotten life.

The night stretched on, long and desolate. The hours crawled by, each tick of the clock a countdown to my own quiet expiration. I lay on the narrow bed, the cheap mattress digging into my aching back, listening to the silence of the house. My body felt like a lead weight, heavy and unresponsive, my lungs burning with every shallow breath. I counted the seconds, the minutes, feeling my life force slowly ebb away. Two hours. One hour. Thirty minutes.

Just as the digital clock on my phone blinked to 12:00 AM, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the quiet house. Then, a loud bang as the front door burst open. My parents were home. And they were angry.

My door flew open, slamming against the wall with a force that made me jump. My father, Johnie, stood framed in the doorway, his face a mask of rage. My mother, Clarissa, hovered anxiously behind him, her expression a mixture of fury and embarrassment.

"Ela! What have you done?" Johnie' s voice boomed, shaking the small room. "Isabel is in hysterics! King had to carry her out of the ballroom! She's terrified you're going to ruin everything for her!" He took a step into the room, his eyes blazing. "You need to apologize, Ela. Now."

I just stared at him, my heart breaking into a thousand pieces. Apologize for what? For dying? For wanting a moment of peace? I closed my eyes, a silent prayer for strength. Just a little longer, Ela. Just a little longer.

I remembered a time when my father's anger was a rare, terrifying thing, reserved for grave offenses. When I was small, he was my hero, my protector. He would sit by my bedside when I was sick, reading me stories, his voice a comforting rumble. He taught me to ride my first bicycle, holding on tight until I found my balance, his booming laugh echoing in the summer air when I finally pedaled away on my own.

But that was before Isabel. Before her brilliance eclipsed my quiet nature. She was the star athlete, the top student, the effortlessly charming socialite. My father, once so patient with my artistic pursuits, my love for quiet reading, slowly began to see them as weaknesses.

"Look at Isabel," he'd say, a hint of disappointment in his voice. "So strong, so ambitious. Why can't you be more like her, Ela?"

My illness, which had started subtly in my late teens, only deepened his disapproval. The constant fatigue, the chronic pain, the fragile immune system – they were all just further proof of my inadequacy. My doctors were baffled, attributing my symptoms to "stress" or "fibromyalgia," whispering about my "delicate constitution." My parents took their cues from these vague diagnoses, dismissing my suffering as a ploy for attention.

"Isabel gets promoted, she conquers the corporate ladder," my father continued, his voice dripping with contempt. "And what do you do, Ela? You lie around, you get sick, you cause scandals. You're an embarrassment!" He threw his hands up in exasperation. "What good are you to us? To King? To anyone?"

His words were a physical blow, worse than any King had inflicted. What good are you? The question echoed in my mind, a cruel, familiar refrain. Isabel, his golden child, was everything I wasn't. Her successes were his triumphs, her charm, his pride. I was simply the shadow that dimmed their light.