When My Groom Planned to Inherit My Fortune by Killing Me

The silence that followed Chief Washington's departure felt like a death sentence. I lay sprawled on the cold floor, each labored breath a reminder of how thoroughly I'd been betrayed. My fingers still throbbed where Zane had stepped on them, but the pain was nothing compared to the fire in my lungs.

Zane returned to his notepad, scribbling with clinical detachment. "Oxygen saturation now at eighty-two percent," he murmured, as if presenting at a medical conference rather than watching me die.

I tried to focus on the door where Chief Washington had stood moments before. Had he suspected something? Would he come back?

"He's gone to check the safety manifest," Zane said, answering my unspoken question. His eyes flicked up to meet mine, a cold smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Standard protocol for chemical spills. He'll be occupied for at least twenty minutes."

Katalina sighed dramatically, leaning against the wall beside him. "Twenty minutes? That's all we need."

The room tilted violently as my oxygen levels continued to drop. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision, growing larger with each passing second. I tried to speak, but my voice emerged as a desperate wheeze.

"Zane..." I gasped, reaching toward him with trembling fingers. "Please..."

He crouched beside me, his face inches from mine. For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of something—regret? Humanity? But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"You know what's fascinating about asthma attacks?" he said, his voice soft but clinical. "The progression is so predictable once medication is withheld."

Katalina laughed, the sound echoing off the sterile walls. "God, you're such a nerd."

As my consciousness began to fade, pieces started falling into place with terrible clarity. The fellowship at Johns Hopkins that had seemed to fall into Zane's lap—I'd secretly funded it through shell companies. The research grant that had elevated him to prominence—I'd anonymously donated the seed money. Every step of his meteoric rise had been orchestrated by my hidden hand, believing I was supporting the man I loved.

"Did you really think I didn't know?" Zane asked, as if reading my thoughts. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "About your little secret? The Montgomery fortune?"

My heart stuttered in my chest. How long had he known?

"From our second date," he said, answering my unspoken question. "That watch you wore—your father's, wasn't it? The one with the Montgomery crest?"

Katalina snorted. "Please. Everyone knows who you are, Victoria. The reclusive Montgomery heiress playing at being normal."

The truth crashed over me like a tidal wave. Every sacrifice I'd made—every secret I'd kept—had been nothing but fodder for their amusement.

"You never loved me," I whispered, the realization both devastating and clarifying.

Zane's smile widened. "Love? Is that what you thought this was?"

Through the haze of pain and oxygen deprivation, I watched as he pulled out his phone and began recording my struggles.

"This data will be invaluable," he said to Katalina. "The progression of respiratory distress in isolation—we'll be published in The Lancet for sure."

I tried to crawl away, but my limbs wouldn't cooperate. Each movement used precious oxygen I couldn't spare. Still, I had to try. Had to fight.

With the last of my strength, I lunged toward the emergency call button on the wall. It was only a few feet away—if I could just reach it...

My fingers brushed against the cord just as Katalina's shadow fell over me.

"Oh no, you don't," she said, yanking the cord from the socket with a sharp tug.

The plastic cover cracked as it hit the floor beside me, useless now.

"God, you're pathetic," Katalina rolled her eyes, stepping on my outstretched hand. "Zane told me you'd try something like this."

I looked up at her through a haze of pain and desperation.

"He says you smell like old lady perfume and medication," she continued, her voice dripping with mockery. "Like you've been preserved in formaldehyde or something."

Zane laughed—actually laughed—as he continued documenting my suffering.

"Katalina has quite the flair for description," he said, his pen never stopping. "Though I'd say it's more like mothballs and expired medicine."

The room began to fade around me as my oxygen levels dropped to critical levels. My vision narrowed to a pinpoint of light as I fought to hold onto consciousness.

"Just a few more minutes," Zane murmured, more to himself than to me. "Just a few more minutes of data."

As darkness closed in around me, one thought crystallized with perfect clarity: This was how I would die—not as Victoria Montgomery, heiress to a pharmaceutical empire, but as an anonymous woman betrayed by the man she'd loved.