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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My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

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