My fiancé wanted to kill me.
He cornered me on the balcony of our penthouse, brandishing the jagged stem of a champagne flute.
He pierced my heart with the glass and hurled me from the 30th floor.
As I fell, I saw the tear tracks glistening on his face.
He said, "Goodbye, my perfect creation."
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1
At the Northwood Conservatory of Music, Liam Slater and I were two halves of a whole. We were destined for each other, the perfect creative partners from the moment we met.
I composed melodies for him, and his fingertips would make the music soar. I would stay up all night perfecting a concerto born from one of his fleeting inspirations. He would make me hot cocoa, plan elaborate surprises for every anniversary, and anchor me when the world felt adrift.
We were the rising stars of the music department. He majored in piano, I in composition. We shared a single dream—to hold our own concert at Carnegie Hall.
Our bond felt unbreakable. We promised to get engaged the day we graduated.
Everything changed after Liam's hands were crushed in a stage accident. I can still hear the shriek of metal against metal as the lighting rig fell—a sound like Death itself snapping a genius's knuckles.
From that moment, Liam was a stranger. He walled himself off, his silence punctuated by flashes of irritability. Sometimes, the frustration would boil over into violence.
Still, he persisted, composing with the one hand he could barely control.
I knew this was my fault. If I hadn't insisted he go to that damned rehearsal... if it hadn't been my birthday... if I hadn't let him leave after 8 p.m.... none of it would have happened.
Sometimes, he would startle from a stupor and turn to me, his voice hollow. "Is it over? My music career... is it all over?"
I would cling to him, my tears soaking his shirt. "If you give up, my music dies with yours. Promise me you won't give up. Please? I'll always be with you."
But I started noticing strange things.
How the music he composed grew darker, more distorted. How he would stare at the metronome, his gaze so intense it seemed he could bore a hole through it.
How he would wake in the dead of night and walk out to the balcony alone. He would gaze down at the river of traffic below before silently returning to bed.
But I had to believe I understood. We were getting married. I was the only one who could save him.
On the night of my graduation recital, he proposed. Because of his hands, we decided against a grand ceremony. We didn't even tell our parents.
We held a simple engagement ceremony in our rented apartment. I wore a white gown and married the love of my life.
But at our New Year's Eve party, he didn't offer a toast. He shattered a champagne flute. The sharp glass raked across my skin, and blood instantly welled to the surface.
I heard him growl, again and again, "Why is fate so unfair to me? Why?"
This was my engagement party, the one I had dreamed of since I was a little girl. I thrashed in a pool of my own blood as Liam carved a dozen cuts into my body with the glass shards, each one meticulously avoiding my vital organs.
"Let me go," I begged.
"Didn't you promise to be with me forever, my dear Ava?" he whispered.
When his grip loosened, I tried to run, but he caught me. He brandished the glass, forcing me onto the balcony. I left a sickening trail of blood from the living room to the railing.
Under the moonlight, he was a ravenous beast, his eyes locked on my hands. Finally, he lunged, plunging the glass into my heart. Then, he pushed me from the balcony of our 30th-floor apartment.
As I fell, I saw tears streaming from his eyes. He said, "Goodbye, my perfect creation."
