Dying On My Own Terms

I loved Dozier McCarthy with a madness that terrified him. So when his new girlfriend accused me of pushing her down the stairs, he didn't defend me.

Instead, he signed the papers to lock me away in Serenity Heights.

He called it "rehabilitation" for my obsession. I called it three years of hell.

While he lived his perfect life, I was strapped to a bed, force-fed heavy antipsychotics that they called "vitamins."

Those pills didn't just kill my love for him. They slowly destroyed my kidneys.

When he finally came to collect me, he smiled, thinking my silence meant I was "cured."

He didn't know he was looking at a walking corpse.

Now that the doctors have given me a terminal diagnosis, Dozier is on his knees, offering millions to fix what he broke.

"We'll find a donor," he begged, tears streaming down his face. "I'll save you."

I just pulled my hand away and adjusted my apron.

"It's too late, Dozier. I have a bagel cart to run."

He wanted to control my life. Now, he can only watch me die on my own terms.

Chapter 1

Kristal Gillespie POV:

I hated him for eight years before I truly started to love him. Or maybe I loved him so much I hated myself for it. I don' t know. All I know is that my world began and ended with Dozier Mccarthy. Every breath I took, every decision I made, every public display of affection that embarrassed him, it was all for him. And he knew it. Everyone knew it.

Then he introduced Dallas Suarez.

She was everything I wasn't-poised, polished, and perfectly designed to fit into Dozier's world. I watched them, my stomach churning with an acid I hadn't known before. I knew then that my love, the kind that made me chase him through every party, every charity gala, was a burden to him. A nuisance.

I had to do something.

My plan was simple, desperate, and, in hindsight, stupid. I pulled Dallas aside at the Mccarthy Foundation's annual winter gala. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and old money.

"Fifty thousand dollars," I said, my voice barely a whisper against the clinking of champagne flutes.

Dallas, her eyes the color of iced tea, barely blinked. Her smile didn't reach them. "Is that all your little heart can offer, Kristal? Fifty thousand dollars to walk away from a Mccarthy? Darling, that's what I spend on shoes in a season."

The words cut deeper than any knife. She laughed, a soft, tinkling sound that grated on my nerves. She knew. She knew my love was a desperate, unrequited thing. And she thrived on it.

I must have said something then, something angry, something that pushed her. Or maybe I just looked at her wrong. Everything happened so fast. One moment, she was standing at the top of the grand staircase, her hand loosely gripping the ornate railing. The next, she was tumbling down, a scream tearing from her throat.

People rushed forward. Dozier was there, his face a mask of shock and fury. Dallas lay at the bottom, a twisted doll. Her eyes, still shining with a cold triumph, found mine.

"She pushed me!" she wailed, her voice surprisingly strong for someone who had just taken such a fall. "Kristal pushed me!"

The words echoed in the cavernous hall. Gasps filled the silence that followed. My heart pounded against my ribs, a trapped bird. I didn't push her. I didn't. But who would believe me? Not Dozier.

He looked at me, not with concern, but with a chilling disappointment. He was tired of the drama, tired of me. My love, once a fiery thing, had become an inconvenience.

Days later, the papers came. My name, Kristal Gillespie, was scrawled at the top. Below it, Dozier Mccarthy' s signature, stark and unfeeling, authorizing my involuntary commitment to "Serenity Heights." He called it "rehabilitation," a benevolent "correction" for my "erotomania." My family, bewildered and shamed, offered no resistance. They too, I think, were tired.

The gates were tall, rusted iron, like something out of a gothic novel. They clanged shut behind me, severing me from the world I knew. From Dozier.

I stood there, a ghost already, knowing my life, as I understood it, was over.

Kristal Gillespie POV:

Three years. That' s how long it takes to become someone else. Three years for the world to forget you. Three years for you to forget yourself.

The clang of those gates, rusted and heavy, still echoed in my mind, even after they swung open again. I stepped out, not into sunlight, but into a stark, gray afternoon. My eyes were fixed on the cracked pavement, a habit deeply ingrained. Don' t look up. Don' t draw attention.

A sleek black Mercedes idled by the curb, a jarring sight against the drab, institutional architecture. It gleamed, pristine and out of place, like a diamond left on a heap of ash. I almost walked past it, assuming it couldn' t possibly be for me. It was too... luxurious. Too much like the life I no longer belonged to.

Then a door opened.

"Kristal."

My name. It sounded foreign, almost like a command. I flinched, my shoulders tightening, a familiar tremor starting in my hands. I knew that voice. It was deeper now, with an edge of impatience I recognized, even after three years of silence.

I didn't lift my gaze past his polished shoes, then his expensive trousers. Dozier. He was still Dozier, but hardened, more formidable. His hair was shorter, his jawline sharper, etched with an authority that wasn't there before. The boy I had loved, the man who had despised my love, was now a titan. A stranger.

"Get in," he said, his voice clipped.

My feet moved before my brain could process the order. That' s how it worked now. Orders were obeyed. Immediately. Without question. I slid into the back seat, the soft leather cold against my thin frame. I kept my head down, staring at the seam of my ill-fitting, faded dress. This was the attire they deemed suitable for release. A uniform of anonymity.

He got in beside me. The scent of him, expensive cologne and something uniquely Mccarthy, filled the confined space. It was overwhelming. My breath hitched. I wanted to disappear.

"Kristal," he said again, his voice softer this time, but still hesitant. "Are you alright?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. What was 'alright'? The word had no meaning anymore. It was a concept from a different world, a different me. I just focused on the thread on my dress, counting them, anything to keep my mind from the living, breathing presence beside me.

"Look at me," he commanded, a little sharper this time.

The conditioning kicked in. My head snapped up, my eyes meeting his for a fleeting second. His eyes, once so dismissive, now held a strange mix of curiosity and something else I couldn't name. It made my stomach clench. But the second I met his gaze, I remembered. Rule number one: Do not stare. Especially not at those you desire. It is a sign of your illness.

My eyes dropped instantly, finding my lap, my hands, anything but his face. The tremor in my hands became more pronounced.

Dozier sighed, a sound that carried a weight of frustration, but also, surprisingly, a hint of something akin to hurt. "Still playing games, Kristal?"

Games. I hadn't played a game in three years. I just survived.

The car started, the engine a low purr. It moved smoothly, gliding through the gates that had held me captive. I risked a glance out the window, the concrete walls giving way to busy streets, tall buildings, a world re-awakened. It was too bright, too loud, too fast. My senses, dulled by years of sterile sameness, were overloaded.

"We're going to my grandmother's estate," Dozier said, breaking the silence. "It's her 80th birthday. I figured you... didn't have anywhere else to go."

His words hung in the air, a thinly veiled accusation, a reminder of my utter destitution. He assumed I was still clinging to him, still desperate for his scraps of attention. He assumed wrong. The old Kristal, the one obsessed with Dozier Mccarthy, had died behind those gates. What emerged was... an echo.

We drove for what felt like an eternity, the city blurring into a kaleidoscope of colors I hadn't seen in years. My body was tense, rigid. Every turn, every stop, every sound was a jolt to my system. I was free, they said. But freedom felt like a cage I hadn't yet learned to navigate.

The car pulled up a long, winding driveway, past manicured lawns and ancient oak trees. The McCarthy estate. It stood, grand and imposing, just as I remembered it. A symbol of everything I had lost, everything I had once yearned for. And now, I was back. Not as the girl who wanted to be part of it, but as an unwanted guest, a ghost they couldn't quite shake. The unease in my stomach twisted into a knot. What fresh hell awaited me inside?

Kristal Gillespie POV:

The dining room at the McCarthy estate was a cathedral of wealth. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the high ceiling, casting a warm, golden glow on a mahogany table laden with delicacies. Silver gleamed, porcelain shimmered, and the air was thick with the rich aromas of roasted meats and expensive wines.

I sat at the very end, farthest from Dozier and Dallas, my assigned seat a silent declaration of my status. My eyes, practiced in their downward gaze, focused on the pristine white tablecloth. The array of food was overwhelming – lobster bisque, seared scallops, a prime rib so perfectly cooked it looked like a painting. But my hands, with a mind of their own, reached only for the plain bread roll.

I tore off a piece, then another, stuffing it into my mouth with frantic speed. At Serenity Heights, slow eaters were starved. Meals were a race against the clock, a brutal competition for survival. You ate fast, or you didn't eat. The habit was deeply ingrained. I chewed, not tasting the soft, bland bread, just swallowing, needing to fill the emptiness. My jaw ached.

My plate remained otherwise untouched. The steak, the lobster, they might as well have been made of plastic. They weren't plain. They weren't safe. And they certainly weren't guaranteed.

The conversation around me was a low hum, punctuated by polite laughter. I kept my silence, a skill perfected over three years. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't express opinions. Don't exist beyond what is required.

Then, a voice, soft but clear, cut through the hum. "Kristal, dear, are you enjoying the dinner?" It was Mrs. McCarthy, Dozier's grandmother. Her voice was kind, reminding me of a gentle breeze.

My body reacted before my brain. Forks clattered to the table as I pushed back my chair, scraping it loudly against the polished floor. I shot to my feet, my heart hammering against my ribs, a piece of half-chewed bread still in my mouth.

"Present!" I shouted, the word ringing through the suddenly silent room. It was a bark, a reflex from roll call, from the daily inspection, from the years of being a number, not a name.

The room fell into stunned silence. Every pair of eyes, which I had so carefully avoided, was now fixed on me. Dallas, further down the table, let out a delicate gasp. Dozier, beside his grandmother, looked mortified.

My own response shocked me. My cheeks burned. Control. You must control yourself. I could feel the tremor starting in my hands again, spreading through my arms. This wasn't Serenity Heights. There was no nurse with a syringe, no security guard with a tranquilizer dart. But the fear was real. The fear of punishment, of being seen as "unstable," "uncooperative."

Mrs. McCarthy, bless her heart, was the first to recover. "Dozier," she said, her voice laced with an unexpected sharpness, "You startled the poor girl." She turned to me, her eyes, though kind, held a hint of sadness. "It's alright, dear. You can relax. Please, sit down."

I obeyed, my movements stiff and unnatural. My eyes remained glued to my untouched plate, to the piece of bread I had dropped. I didn't dare look up.

"Kristal," Dozier said, his voice low, filled with a controlled irritation. "Did you hear Grandma? Sit down. And for God's sake, stop acting out."

Acting out. The words were like a slap. He thought this was for attention. He thought I was playing games. The old Kristal would have been furious, would have lashed out. But the new Kristal just shut down. My body tightened further, a coil ready to snap. I squeezed my hands into fists under the table, my nails digging into my palms. Anything to stop the trembling. Anything to stop the feeling.

The dinner resumed, the clinking of silverware and hushed conversations slowly returning, but the spell was broken. I sat there, a statue, my untouched food a testament to my fear, my silence a monument to my compliance. Dozier's words, "stop acting out," replayed in my mind. He still didn't understand. He thought he had "fixed" me. But he had only replaced my love with fear, my passion with obedience. And the realization was a cold, hard stone in my gut.