“Are you certain you want to fake your death?” The voice on the other end of the phone was cold.
“Yes.” My answer came without hesitation.
Then I paused.
“I have one condition,” I added quietly. “The one responsible for my death must be Sheldon Carter, my husband.”
“That is… an extreme request, Ma’am,” the man said at last.
“Just do what I say. Payment will not be an issue.”
I ended the call.
As I lowered my phone, my gaze drifted to the painting on the living room wall—the first one my daughter, Lizzie Carter, had ever made.
She painted three figures holding hands, looking like a loving family.
Yet the longer I stared, the more my breath tightened. The woman in the painting didn’t look like me.
She looked like Stacey Middleton, my husband’s first love.
My chest constricted painfully.
I thought of our wedding day. Sheldon had been so nervous until his hands trembled, nearly dropping the ring.
Leaning close, he whispered, breathless and earnest, “I promise I’ll always be with you.”
When Lizzie was born, he cried harder than I did.
Holding my shaking body, he kissed my forehead and said hoarsely, “One child is enough, I can’t watch you suffer again, Reba.”
Every anniversary, flowers never failed to arrive. Gifts followed.
Lizzie would throw herself into my arms, laughing, “Mommy, I want a family just like you and Daddy when I grow up.”
We had been perfect, or so I believed.
Everything changed the day Stacey returned from England—with her illegitimate son, Diego Middleton.
She signed a sponsorship contract with Sheldon’s company, chose Hollywood, and quietly walked back into his life.
Who would have thought that for two entire years, my husband and daughter had been worshipping another woman behind my back?
Sheldon claimed he was busy with meetings. In truth, he was warming someone else’s bed.
Lizzie began calling Stacey “second mommy,” and Diego “brother.” by saying, “It would be so nice if they lived with us.”
Each word pierced deeper than betrayal.
I never imagined that my five-year marriage—once envied by all—would become proof of the curse people whispered about behind my back.
So, I made my decision just as quietly.
“If loyalty no longer exists, then I’ll leave him with guilt,” I whispered into the silence, my voice breaking.
I would disappear, faking my death.
Let Sheldon keep the woman he never stopped loving. Let Lizzie grow beside the woman she already adored.
I would leave them the family they wanted, and bury my heartbreak in the grave they believed was mine.
Months after my burial, they learned who truly loved them. And Stacey, she only took advantage of them.
Regret always comes last, and karma is real, Sheldon Carter!
***
As I turned on the television, an award ceremony filled the screen.
Stacey stood on stage, radiant, smiling as Hollywood’s Best Newcomer Actress at the Global Actress Award ceremony.
What shocked me was that she was not alone. She came with my husband—the man who was supposed to be in a meeting.
Sheldon held Stacey’s hand. Lizzie and Diego followed arm in arm behind them.
They were smiling like a family meant to be. All because Stacey was under Carter Group’s sponsorship.
But tonight was our fifth wedding anniversary. The night that I had prepared carefully.
The dishes, the table, the candle, it was all perfect, except for one. People.
I waited until night swallowed the house and the food turned cold only to receive a cold message, [Urgent business trip. Lizzie with me.]
Nothing else.
In the end, they never came, which made me understand that they had already chosen to forget me without hesitation.
Eyes for eyes, ears for ears.
If they easily left me, then I would leave them also.
“Are you certain you want to fake your death?” The voice on the other end of the phone was cold.
“Yes.” I answered without hesitation. “But I have one condition. The one responsible for my death must be Sheldon Carter, my husband.”
“I should leave him with guilt,” I added.
“That is… an extreme request, Ma’am,” the man said at last.
“Just do what I say. Payment will not be an issue.”
I ended the call and silently lifted the dishes, threw them into the trash. Then I turned the family painting upside down, walked out of the room, and never looked back.
Upstairs, memories trailed behind me like shadows.
Every day, Lizzie used to bring me her little treasures—leaves picked up from the roadside, clumsy crafts from school, colorful stickers she saved carefully just for me. She would press them into my hands as if they were priceless.
Then everything shifted.
I forbade her from eating too many sweets, afraid her tooth decay would worsen. Such a small thing.
Yet from that moment, distance quietly grew. Her smiles faded. Her steps no longer rushed toward me.
As I packed my belongings, the weight of it all finally crushed my chest.
I had met Sheldon eight years ago—as his psychiatrist.
Back then, he was struggling with depression. After his father began pushing more responsibilities onto him at the company, his condition worsened.
He even suffered from sociophobia. Before meetings, his entire body would tremble, his hands shaking uncontrollably.
When he first met me, Sheldon was calm, distant, composed. To him, I was just a doctor—someone meant to fix him.
Three years passed like that.
Then one day, without warning, he proposed.
“I can’t live without you anymore,” he said, eyes red, voice unsteady. “I need you by my side.”
His family welcomed me warmly. They approved of us, celebrated us. In the end, we got married.
Sheldon often spoke of his dream—to have many children. He loved them deeply.
“Children are pure,” he once said softly. “Not like the adults at the company. They smile at you while stabbing you in the back.”
I agreed. I liked children too.
But fate had other plans.
My first pregnancy was high-risk. Giving birth was a battle between life and death. When it was over, the doctor forbade me from ever getting pregnant again.
I saw the disappointment in Sheldon’s eyes. He tried to hide it, but I saw it.
Still, he held my hand and promised, again and again, “No matter what happens, I’ll always love you. Your health matters most. We already have Lizzie.”
I believed him until two years ago, the day when everything changed as Stacey returned a month after his father passed away.
He began praising her. Sometimes, he praised her son too—how clever he was, how well-behaved.
Lizzie even started saying she wanted siblings.
Until I finally understood, they had already chosen Stacey. And in their hearts, she had quietly replaced me.
So, when morning came, I handed the package to the courier.
“Send it to Apartment 1004,” I said calmly. “The recipient is Stacey Middleton. Make sure it arrives a week from now.”
I paused, lips curving faintly. “Tell her she may enjoy the pair of husband and daughter. I’m throwing out a worthless pair.”
“What pair are you throwing away?” a man's voice asked behind me.
Panic consumed me as I saw Sheldon and Lizzie were already behind me.
