I Won't Let You Go, Even In Death

When I was eighteen, Niccolo stormed into my house and stabbed my father eighteen times.

As the police dragged him away, he looked straight into the cameras and smiled.

"Why should I regret it? From now on, no beast will ever hide behind the name of family to hurt her. From this day forward, Maureen is free."

Years later, when he got out of prison, I had nothing—no money in my pockets, no job offers.

He stubbed out his cigarette, threw himself into the ruthless circles of the capital, and clawed his way up until everyone called him President Morales.

After we got married, every password of his was set to my birthday.

And yet, as I scrolled through his photo albums, all I saw were pictures of another woman—over thousands of them, but not a single one of mine.

It was only then that he seemed to realize.

Without a word, he deleted all those photos, tossed his phone aside, and said flatly, “It’s all in the past. Pretend you never saw it.”

I slid the divorce papers across the table and intoned coldly, "I told you. Sign it."

He dropped the pen and squinted his eyes. "And I told you as well—between us, there's no divorce. Only death."

——

Niccolo didn't sign.

"Between us, there was only widowhood, never divorce." Those had been his words on our wedding day.

He didn't even glance at the papers before slamming the door and leaving.

Not long after, a voice message popped up from an unfamiliar number.

"You must be Maureen, right? You should've seen it by now—he's been saving my photos since I was still in school. Nico loves me, not you. If you don't step aside, he'll make sure you regret it!"

Her voice was young, naive, seemingly untouched by the filth of the world—or maybe Niccolo had simply shielded her too well.

Before I could reply, a string of photos came through.

Her figure was flawless, a fine chain glinting against her slender waist. And that hand—the very one that sometimes forgot to remove our wedding ring—lay sprawled carelessly across her bare skin. It was only when her belly began to swell that the chain vanished.

"Maureen, you've been married to Nico for three years and never carried his child. But he let me bear his baby. Don't you get it? What's the point of clinging on? If you won’t give up, I’ll move into your home myself. Let’s see whose side Nico takes then—yours or mine."

When Niccolo came home, he found the shattered glass ornaments scattered across the floor—and me standing there with the phone in hand.

He only raised a brow as he said, "Don't you have anything to say?"

My ragged breathing mingled with the smoke from his cigar.

He chuckled softly, exhaled a ring of smoke, and sighed. "She's just a girl. Why bother lowering yourself to her level?"

His tone was light as if all the bloodshed he endured in the capital had been for her, not me.

"Yes, she's young and foolish." I tossed a medical report onto the table.

His body stiffened instantly.

"She was pregnant," I said flatly. "So I taught her a lesson and made her grow up."

"Maureen!"

His hands clamped down on my shoulders so hard it felt like my bones would snap. My back hit the wall. I curled my lips, savoring the redness burning in his eyes.

In this lifetime, he'd only bled anger from his eyes twice.

Once, in our final year of high school—when he saw my father drag me half-naked by the hair into the street, trying to drown me in the river. That was the night he stabbed my father eighteen times.

The second time was now—over a girl's miscarriage.

He crushed my shoulders, demanding to know my "cruelty."

"How rare," I sneered, "to see President Morales actually lose control."

"You're a woman too! How could you do this to her?" he thundered.

"You already said it yourself," I leaned closer, whispering, "between us, there's no divorce. Only death. If you can't kill me, I'll kill you both instead."

Blood dripped to the floor.

He finally noticed the cuts on my hand from smashing the glass. His grip slowly loosened.

"Good," he murmured. "I didn't want that child anyway."

He took my hand, carefully wiping away the blood. When he dabbed iodine onto the wound, he blew gently, the way he always did.

It was a habit born years ago, when I'd come home covered in bruises from my father's beatings. He hadn't had anything but alcohol to disinfect my wounds, and he'd always blown softly, as if it could ease the sting.

Now, even with proper medicine, he was still careful—still afraid of hurting me.

My bloodied palm struck his face.

"Enough. It's filthy."

His face tilted slightly to the side. He didn't ask whether I meant the blood was filthy—or he was.

Instead, he called Uncle Johnson, the butler, and handed him the medical kit.