The Wife Who Died For Me

The Wife Who Died For Me

Gavin

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The sterile hum of the hospital room was my last lullaby. I was Alex Miller, a game developer, fading away after a hit-and-run crash. My wife, Sarah, had spent three years turning my life into a living hell, her words sharper than any blade, all to push me away. Divorce papers, a constant reminder of my failures, sat untouched on our counter. I believed her staged betrayals and cruel jabs until the very end, telling the nurse to ensure Sarah knew I was finally gone, free from my burden. But death offered no escape, only a spectral front-row seat to my own funeral. I watched Sarah, her face a mask, her eyes raw, remain long after everyone left. Then, a terrifying truth unfolded: she hunted down my killer with relentless fury, breaking his limbs before calling the police. A week later, at my grave, under a full moon, she whispered words that tore through the veil of death. "Alex, I'm here to stay. I'm so sorry. I just wanted you to live, to be happy, without me." She revealed a medical diagnosis: Glioblastoma. Terminal. Then, she climbed into my casket, swallowing pills, choosing to die with me. The world fractured, then slammed back together. I gasped, sitting at our kitchen table, the scent of coffee and Sarah's perfume filling the air. She slid divorce papers across the table, her voice flat. "I've found someone else, Alex. He's successful. He can give me what you can't." It was the day it all started, her cruel, self-sacrificing performance beginning anew. But this time, I knew the script. With trembling hands, I ripped the papers to shreds, then pulled my terrified, lying wife into my arms. "Are you crazy?" I whispered, tears welling. "Hiding a terminal illness? Do you think that's cool?"

Introduction

The sterile hum of the hospital room was my last lullaby.

I was Alex Miller, a game developer, fading away after a hit-and-run crash.

My wife, Sarah, had spent three years turning my life into a living hell, her words sharper than any blade, all to push me away.

Divorce papers, a constant reminder of my failures, sat untouched on our counter.

I believed her staged betrayals and cruel jabs until the very end, telling the nurse to ensure Sarah knew I was finally gone, free from my burden.

But death offered no escape, only a spectral front-row seat to my own funeral.

I watched Sarah, her face a mask, her eyes raw, remain long after everyone left.

Then, a terrifying truth unfolded: she hunted down my killer with relentless fury, breaking his limbs before calling the police.

A week later, at my grave, under a full moon, she whispered words that tore through the veil of death.

"Alex, I'm here to stay. I'm so sorry. I just wanted you to live, to be happy, without me."

She revealed a medical diagnosis: Glioblastoma. Terminal.

Then, she climbed into my casket, swallowing pills, choosing to die with me.

The world fractured, then slammed back together.

I gasped, sitting at our kitchen table, the scent of coffee and Sarah's perfume filling the air.

She slid divorce papers across the table, her voice flat.

"I've found someone else, Alex. He's successful. He can give me what you can't."

It was the day it all started, her cruel, self-sacrificing performance beginning anew.

But this time, I knew the script.

With trembling hands, I ripped the papers to shreds, then pulled my terrified, lying wife into my arms.

"Are you crazy?" I whispered, tears welling. "Hiding a terminal illness? Do you think that's cool?"

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Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles

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I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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