After finishing these arrangements, I felt as though every ounce of strength had been drained from me.
The number “2” on my wrist loomed like a death warrant, reminding me constantly of my dwindling time.
Emily wasted no chance to torment me.
Every day, she sent me photos of herself with Jason.
Sometimes they were dining in an upscale restaurant, with Jason tenderly cutting her steak.
Sometimes they were at an amusement park, leaning their heads together like starry-eyed lovers.
The latest one was taken at the Miller family estate.
In the photo, Emily sat beside Jason, beaming with joy. The caption read: “Jason said he’ll throw me the grand birthday party I never had.”
Jason’s birthday parties were always gatherings of high society elites.
Yet I, his legal wife, had to learn about it from someone else’s social media post.
I turned off my phone, unwilling to see more.
The pain in my body grew more frequent, each wave like countless needles piercing my heart.
I knew the “2” wouldn’t last much longer.
So I began writing letters—to my parents, to my friends.
I wanted to tell them how much I loved them, and to beg them not to grieve for me.
For me, death would be a release.
Halfway through, my phone rang.
It was Jason.
I hesitated, but answered.
“Rachel, where are you?” His voice sounded tired.
“At home.”
“Tomorrow is Emily’s birthday party. You’re coming with me.”
His tone wasn’t a request. It was a command.
I laughed, the sound hollow and bitter.
“Jason, why should I go?”
“Because you’re my wife!” he snapped, emphasizing each word.
“I won’t have my face disgraced in front of the guests.”
Always about appearances.
In his eyes, the only value I had was to preserve his ridiculous pride.
“Fine. I’ll go,” I agreed.
Because I wanted, before dying, to look at him one last time.
To look at the man I had loved for ten years, the man who was driving me to my death.
Emily’s birthday party was held at the Royal Crown Hotel, the city’s most extravagant venue.
The hall glittered with gold, packed with distinguished guests.
Dressed in a black gown, I clung to Jason’s arm, a puppet painted to perfection.
Envious gazes surrounded us, praising us as a perfect couple, a match made in heaven.
How ironic.
They didn’t know their “perfect couple” was killing his own wife.
Emily was the star of the night.
She wore a princess-like white gown, that diamond necklace sparkling at her throat, smiling radiantly.
When it came time to cut the cake, she deliberately called me to her side.
“Rachel, thank you so much for coming tonight. Jason and I are truly happy you’re here.”
Her voice was loud, as if proclaiming ownership before everyone.
Jason stood silently by, offering no denial.
Instead, he just watched, tacitly affirming her words.
Then Emily took out a projector.
“Tonight, I want to share some of the memories between Jason and me.”
Photos filled the screen.
There were childhood snapshots of them together, innocent and carefree.
There were recent ones too—an attractive man, a coquettish woman, their gazes locked with intimacy.
The final photo froze on Jason’s side profile.
He was looking down at Emily with a focus and tenderness I had never once seen directed at me.
