Fiancé's Betrayal: My Fatal Wedding Gift

I was given three months to live. My fiancé, however, decided that was far too long.

I overheard him with my stepsister, Krista, calling our three-year relationship a "charade" he was tired of.

The bone marrow I donated to him after a car crash-the very act that triggered my fatal illness-wasn't a sacrifice. It was a transaction. He had manipulated my guilt to use me as a placeholder while he waited for his true love, Krista.

He abandoned me bleeding at our engagement party to tend to her fake injury, then gave her power of attorney over my critically ill brother, forcing me to agree to her cruel demands.

My love was a lie. My sacrifice was a punchline. The man I thought was my savior had orchestrated my death sentence and then buried me with his betrayal.

So on my wedding day, as he waited at the altar for Krista, I faked my own death. I left him with one final wedding gift: my terminal diagnosis and the truth of his deception. It was time for my revenge.

Chapter 1

Hazel POV:

I was given three months to live. My fiancé, however, decided that was far too long.

The diagnosis felt like a punch to the gut, the words knocking the air from my lungs. Severe autoimmune disease. Aplastic Anemia. My own body was waging a war against itself, systematically destroying the bone marrow that produced life.

I stared at the crisp white report in my hands, the black letters swimming before my eyes. A death sentence.

"Hazel," Dr. Evans said, his voice a gentle intrusion into the roaring silence in my head. He pushed a box of tissues across his mahogany desk. "We have options. Treatments. We can fight this."

His words were meant to be a life raft, but I was already too far out at sea, the shore a distant, fading memory. The treatments were brutally expensive and offered no guarantees. All they promised was a prolonged, painful goodbye. A goodbye I wasn't ready to say, especially not to my younger brother, Jakobe, whose own fragile heart depended on the very medical care I could no longer afford.

And Harden.

My fiancé. The charismatic, ruthless tech mogul who had swept into my life and promised me a universe of stars. How could I tell him our future had an expiration date?

My hand trembled as I clutched the report. I had to tell him. He deserved to know. He was my rock, the man who had taught me how to love again after so much loss.

My feet moved on autopilot, carrying me out of the sterile clinic and into the bustling streets of Seattle. The sleek, formidable tower of Diaz Technologies loomed ahead, a monument to the man I was about to break.

The elevator ascended in a smooth, silent glide. I stepped out onto the executive floor, the plush carpet muffling my footsteps. Harden' s office door was slightly ajar. I could hear his voice, a low, familiar rumble that always made my heart flutter.

But then, another voice joined his. A voice that was sharp, saccharine, and laced with a cruelty I knew all too well.

Krista. My stepsister.

I froze, my hand hovering near the doorknob.

"Harden, darling, you can' t be serious," Krista' s voice dripped with disdain. "You' re actually going to wait until after the IPO to dump her? My God, this charade has gone on for three years. I' m tired of waiting."

A cold dread, colder than any medical diagnosis, began to creep up my spine. Charade?

"Patience, Krista," Harden' s voice was smooth, a placating murmur. "Frank Schmitt is watching the stocks like a hawk. Any scandal before we go public could be disastrous. Hazel has served her purpose. Just a little longer."

Purpose? My mind reeled. The paper in my hand crinkled as my grip tightened.

"Her purpose?" Krista laughed, a high, piercing sound. "You mean being my placeholder? God, I still can' t believe she was naive enough to donate her bone marrow to you. She literally paid to be your fiancée."

The world tilted on its axis. The conversation continued, but the words became a distorted, monstrous echo. They were talking about the car accident. The accident three years ago that had nearly killed Harden. The one where I, consumed by a misplaced guilt, had stepped forward without a second thought.

"Don' t be so harsh," Harden said, a hint of something unreadable in his tone. "The accident... it messed with my memory. I needed someone. Guilt is a powerful motivator. All I had to do was whisper that the crash was her fault, and she was putty in my hands. 'I have to save you, Harden.' She' s always been a self-sacrificing fool."

A fool.

The word slammed into me. The bone marrow donation. My sacrifice, the act that had slowly but surely compromised my own immune system, leading me to this very death sentence, had been nothing more than a manipulated, calculated transaction. He had lied. From the very beginning.

His amnesia was real, but the love that blossomed afterward... it was a lie. He had used me. A warm body to keep his bed full while he waited for Krista, his one true love, to return from her stint abroad.

"Well, she' s a fool who' s about to be very, very rich," Krista purred. "Or, at least, her family is. That sick little brother of hers is quite the money pit."

The mention of Jakobe was a physical blow. A wave of nausea washed over me, and a sharp, searing pain tore through my abdomen, a brutal reminder of the traitorous cells multiplying within me. I gasped, stumbling back, my shoulder hitting the wall with a dull thud.

The voices inside the office stopped.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. The carefully constructed world I had built with Harden, the love I thought was my salvation, shattered into a million irreparable pieces.

The diagnosis in my hand felt like a joke. A cruel, cosmic punchline.

My body was killing me, but his words had already buried me.

I turned and ran. I ran past the confused receptionist, ran into the sterile elevator, ran out into the cold, indifferent city. The memories Harden had so carefully curated for me now played back in my mind, each one twisted and poisoned by the truth.

It was three years ago. I was working three jobs, struggling to pay for Jakobe' s art school tuition and his mounting medical bills. One of my gigs was as a designated driver, a late-night hustle for extra cash. That night, the call came from a high-end downtown bar. The client was Harden Diaz, a name I only knew from the business pages.

He was drunk, belligerent, and demanding I drive faster through the slick, rain-soaked streets. He kept yelling a name, a name I now recognized with chilling clarity.

"Krista! Why did you leave me, Krista!"

He had grabbed the wheel, trying to wrench control from me. The car skidded, a symphony of screeching tires and shattering glass. The world went black.

When I awoke, it was to the frantic pleas of his family. He needed a bone marrow transplant. A rare blood type. The same as mine. They offered me money, a fortune that could secure Jakobe' s future forever.

I refused. Not out of nobility, but out of a crushing, suffocating guilt. I believed the accident was my fault. I was the driver.

So I gave him my marrow. My life force.

And in return, he gave me a three-year lie.

When he woke up with partial amnesia, his memory of the moments before the crash gone, he saw me by his bedside and his eyes, the color of warm whiskey, filled with a devotion I had mistaken for love.

"You saved me," he had whispered, his hand finding mine. "I feel like... I' ve known you forever."

He pursued me with a relentless passion. He learned to cook my favorite meals, even though he was a disaster in the kitchen. He covered all of Jakobe' s medical expenses, sending him to the best cardiac specialists in the country. He even bought a star through an online registry and named it "Hazel' s Heart," presenting the certificate to me on our one-year anniversary.

"A bit cheesy, I know," he had said, a sheepish grin on his handsome face. Frank Schmitt, his best friend and business partner, had been there, laughing along.

"Only a man ridiculously in love would do something so cheesy," Frank had quipped, raising his glass. Frank, who knew the truth all along.

"I just wanted to give you something as permanent as my love for you," Harden had explained, his gaze sincere and unwavering. "Something that will burn brightly forever."

The memory, once a source of warmth, now burned like acid in my gut.

It was all a performance. Every kiss, every whispered promise, every grand romantic gesture. It was a meticulously crafted illusion, and I was its most devoted audience.

Now, the show was over. The curtains had fallen. And I was left alone in the dark, with nothing but a terminal diagnosis and the chilling echo of his laughter.

Hazel POV:

I carefully placed the diagnosis report into a waterproof document bag, tucking it deep inside my suitcase. This, along with the star certificate and a few other carefully chosen mementos of his deception, would be my parting gift to Harden. A little surprise for him to find after I was gone.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was him. A wave of nausea washed over me, so potent I had to grip the edge of the dresser to steady myself. I let it ring.

It buzzed again, this time with a text.

Harden: Big night tonight. The official engagement party. Don' t be late.

The engagement party. A public spectacle to celebrate a lie. My fingers hovered over the screen, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. He was calling me to his own execution. Fine. If he wanted a show, I' d give him one he would never forget.

I zipped the suitcase and pushed it under the bed. I would deal with that later. For now, I had a role to play.

The ballroom of The Olympian Hotel was a sea of glittering chandeliers, champagne flutes, and Seattle' s elite. I moved through the crowd like a ghost, my simple navy dress a stark contrast to the couture gowns and flashing diamonds. Every smile felt like a mask, every polite greeting a line from a script I no longer believed in.

And then I saw her.

Krista was holding court by the grand piano, radiant in a crimson dress that clung to her like a second skin. She was the center of gravity in the room, pulling everyone into her orbit with her practiced laughter and sparkling eyes. She looked every bit the social media influencer she was, a perfect prop in her own curated life.

Harden was beside her, his body angled protectively towards her. He was murmuring something in her ear, and his hand rested on the small of her back, a gesture of casual intimacy that was a thousand times more genuine than any touch he had ever given me. He leaned in to adjust a stray strand of her blonde hair, his fingers brushing her cheek with a tenderness that made my stomach churn.

I saw it. That flicker of raw obsession in his eyes. The same look he used to give me.

"It' s a shame, isn' t it?" a woman next to me whispered to her companion, her voice dripping with pity. "Harden was so crazy about Krista back in the day. Everyone thought they' d get married. Then she just up and left for Europe."

"And poor Hazel Rogers steps in," the other woman replied, shaking her head. "She' s a sweet girl, but she' s just keeping the seat warm. You can see it in his eyes. He' s still completely gone on Krista."

The words were meant to be gossip, but they were daggers, each one hitting a fresh, open wound. It was true. I was the placeholder. The convenient, self-sacrificing stand-in.

I remembered the early days, after Krista had dumped him and fled the country. Harden had been a wreck. He' d told everyone they broke up amicably, that she needed to find herself. A lie. He was protecting her reputation, even then. When the press had started hounding me, asking if I was the other woman, the homewrecker, Harden had stood by silently, letting me take the heat. He never once defended me.

My heart, which I thought had already shattered, seemed to splinter into even smaller fragments.

Suddenly, Krista' s eyes met mine across the room. A slow, triumphant smile spread across her perfect lips. She excused herself and glided towards me, her movements sinuous and predatory.

"Hazel, darling!" she cooed, throwing her arms around me in a mock embrace. "I' m so, so happy for you and Harden. You deserve this."

Her perfume, a cloyingly sweet floral scent, enveloped me, making me feel sick. I stiffened, refusing to return the hug.

"Get off me, Krista," I said, my voice low and tight.

She pulled back, her blue eyes glistening with fake tears. She feigned a hurt expression, her lower lip trembling. "Hazel, I know we' ve had our differences, but tonight is your night. I just wanted to wish you well."

She reached out to touch my arm, and I instinctively recoiled. My revulsion was a physical force.

"Don' t touch me."

Krista' s eyes flashed with anger for a split second before the mask of sorrow slipped back into place. She stumbled backward, deliberately bumping into a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes.

The crash was spectacular.

Glass shattered, and golden champagne sprayed everywhere. Krista let out a theatrical shriek. I was closer to the waiter, and the top tier of the pyramid of glasses rained down on me. A sharp, searing pain shot through my arm as a shard of glass sliced deep into my forearm. Another piece caught my leg.

Krista, meanwhile, had a few drops of champagne on her expensive dress and a tiny, almost invisible scratch on her hand.

"Krista!"

Harden' s voice boomed across the ballroom. He was at her side in an instant, his face a mask of frantic concern. He bypassed me completely, his eyes fixed on Krista as if she were the only person in the room.

"Are you okay? Did you get hurt?" he asked, his voice filled with a panic I had never heard from him, not even when I' d been deathly ill from the bone marrow donation. He fussed over the microscopic scratch on her hand, pulling out a handkerchief to dab at it.

"I' m fine, Harden, really," Krista whimpered, leaning into him. "I' m just worried about Hazel. I think... I think she pushed me."

The accusation hung in the air, thick and poisonous.

Harden' s head snapped towards me. His warm whiskey eyes were now glacial, filled with a cold fury that froze me to the spot. I stood there, blood dripping from my arm onto the pristine white floor, a silent testament to the real injury.

"Hazel, what the hell is wrong with you?" he snarled.

"I didn't push her," I whispered, the words barely audible. My arm was throbbing, and a dizzying wave of blackness threatened to pull me under.

"Don' t lie to me! I saw you recoil from her. You' ve always hated her, haven' t you? You couldn' t even stand to let her be happy for us on our engagement night?"

"Harden, please, don' t be angry with her," Krista sobbed, pulling on his arm. "It was an accident. I' m sure she didn' t mean to. She' s just a little overwhelmed. You know how clumsy I am."

Her voice was a masterpiece of faux generosity, designed to make her look like a saint and me a monster.

"See?" Harden' s voice softened as he looked at Krista, his expression melting into pure adoration. "This is why I love you. You' re too kind, too forgiving."

He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close. "Let' s get you cleaned up."

He turned, scooping a protesting Krista into his arms, and carried her away as if she were a precious, injured doll. He didn' t give me a second glance. He didn' t see the blood pooling at my feet, or the deep gash in my arm, or the utter devastation in my eyes.

He just left me there. Bleeding, broken, and utterly alone in a room full of strangers.

Hazel POV:

The clinic' s fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sterile, unforgiving glare on the neat row of stitches marching across my forearm. The doctor, a young resident with tired eyes, carefully wrapped a white bandage around the wound.

"That' s a nasty cut," he said, his voice gentle. "Are you here alone? Is there family I can call for you?"

Family. The word hung in the air between us. Did I have a family? A fiancé who had just accused me of assault and abandoned me to carry his mistress to safety? A stepsister who had orchestrated my public humiliation? My only real family was Jakobe, lying in a hospital bed miles away, unaware of the fresh hell his sister had just walked through.

I couldn't form a reply. A lump formed in my throat, thick and suffocating.

Just as the silence became unbearable, a voice cut through the stuffy air of the examination room.

"Hazel."

I flinched. Harden stood in the doorway, his tall frame blocking the exit. He was holding a small paper bag from the pharmacy, his face a carefully constructed mask of concern.

The young doctor' s face lit up. "Oh, wonderful, you' re here. She gave us quite a scare." He turned to me, his smile congratulatory. "You have a very caring fiancé, Ms. Rogers. He was frantic when he called."

My stomach twisted into a knot of pure acid. Caring. Frantic. The words were a mockery.

Harden walked towards me, his gaze softening as he looked at my bandaged arm. "Let' s get you home."

The drive back to the waterfront condo we shared was suffocating. I stared out the window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of indifferent color. Krista was in the passenger seat, a place that had always, exclusively, been mine. Harden had insisted on it, claiming her minor scratch might get infected if she sat in the back.

She had already changed into one of my cashmere sweaters, which was two sizes too big for her but served its purpose. It made her look small, fragile, and victimized.

"You know, Hazel," Krista said, her voice laced with a triumphant little hum as she examined her perfectly manicured nails. "This seat is so much more comfortable than the back. I can see why you always hogged it."

I didn't answer. I could feel Harden' s eyes on me in the rearview mirror, but I refused to meet his gaze.

He pulled up to our building and turned to Krista, handing her the pharmacy bag he' d been holding. "Here, this is for you. The best scar-prevention cream on the market. I don' t want my beautiful Krista to have a single blemish."

His beautiful Krista. The words were a deliberate, calculated strike, aimed directly at my heart. And they hit their mark. I felt the impact like a physical blow, a sharp, stabbing pain that resonated through my entire body. My arm throbbed in time with my broken heart.

I must have made a sound, a small, choked gasp, because Harden' s attention finally shifted to me.

"What' s wrong now?" he asked, his voice laced with impatience. "It' s just a scratch, Hazel. Don' t be so dramatic."

He and Krista began to chat animatedly about their plans for the week, their voices a cheerful, oblivious buzz that filled a car thick with my silent anguish. My pain, my bleeding, my humiliation-it was all an inconvenient footnote to their grand love story.

"We should go look at wedding venues tomorrow," Harden suggested, his voice bright.

The word 'wedding' was so absurd, so utterly grotesque in this context, that a bitter laugh almost escaped me.

"Oh, that sounds wonderful!" Krista chirped. "But Hazel will need to come. After all, she' s the bride. I can help her pick out a dress. I have much better taste, anyway."

Her words were another deliberate jab, a reminder of her power and my irrelevance.

I thought of the past, of Harden whispering promises in the dark. "I can' t wait to see you walk down the aisle, Hazel. You' ll be the most beautiful bride in the world." It all felt like a scene from a movie I' d once watched, a life that belonged to someone else.

"I' m not feeling well," I finally said, my voice thin and reedy. "My arm hurts. I need to rest."

Harden sighed, a sound of pure annoyance. "Fine. Then Krista can try on the dresses for you. We' re about the same size. It' ll save us a trip."

The cruelty of it was breathtaking. He wanted his mistress to try on my wedding gown. He wanted to see her in white, to picture her as his bride, while I was relegated to the role of a sickly, inconvenient spectator. The mask of the loving fiancé had finally slipped, revealing the monster underneath.

A chilling realization washed over me. He didn't just want to replace me; he wanted to erase me.

"Harden," I asked, my voice flat, devoid of all emotion. "Are we still getting married?"

He seemed taken aback by the directness of the question. "Of course we are," he said, but his tone was clipped, impatient. "Don' t be ridiculous."

I turned my head to stare out the window, a dead smile playing on my lips. "Good. Because I have a very special gift for you and Krista. A wedding gift."

I didn' t wait for his reply. As soon as the car stopped, I opened the door and walked away without a backward glance, leaving him to stare after me with a flicker of something I couldn't quite decipher in his eyes. For a split second, it almost looked like confusion. Or maybe, just maybe, a sliver of fear.