His Wish, My Dying Heart

I was dying from a terminal illness, but my husband, Broderick, thought it was just another one of my games to get his attention. He hated me, convinced I had betrayed him years ago for money.

As I collapsed in agony, begging him to take me to the hospital, he grabbed my chin and whispered the words that shattered my world.

"I will never forgive you. I hope you just... die."

He then left me on the cold floor and rushed to the hospital to be with his true love, Kacey-my best friend. She was the one he worried about, the one whose own heart was failing.

He never knew that the "betrayal" he despised was actually my sacrifice to save his family from ruin. He never knew the depth of my love, a love so absolute that even his cruelty couldn't extinguish it.

So, when the doctors told me I was a perfect match, I made my final choice. I would grant his wish and give my heart to the woman he loved.

Chapter 1

My body ached, every muscle protesting as I forced myself out of bed. The floor was cold beneath my bare feet. A sharp, twisting pain in my abdomen made me gasp, doubling over for a moment before I straightened, gripping the edge of the nightstand.

The morning light, thin and unforgiving, streamed through the window, painting my reflection on the glass. My face was a ghostly white, shadowed by the dark circles under my eyes. I looked fragile, a breath away from shattering.

Then, I heard it.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps descending the stairs.

Broderick.

A familiar knot tightened in my chest-a mix of fear and a desperate, foolish hope. I took a shaky breath, gathering what little strength I had left. My hand trembled as I reached for the doorknob. It was now or never.

"Broderick?" My voice was a weak whisper, barely audible, as if speaking his name consumed the last of my energy.

He stopped, mid-stride, at the foot of the stairs. His gaze, colder than any winter morning, swept over me. There was no warmth, no flicker of recognition for the woman he married. Only a piercing, clinical assessment. It felt like he was looking through me, not at me.

"Did you... did you want breakfast?" I asked, my voice small, almost pleading.

For a fleeting second, a tiny spark of hope ignited within me. Maybe, just maybe, he would soften. Maybe he would see me.

But the light in his eyes was quickly extinguished, replaced by that familiar, impenetrable mask. He turned, without a word, and walked towards the front door. The sound of his footsteps echoed in the silent house, each one a hammer blow to my already bruised heart.

The rejection hit me like a physical punch. My chest constricted, a familiar, agonizing pain spreading through me. Just as he reached the door, a desperate impulse surged.

"Wait!" I cried, rushing forward. My fingers clamped onto the sleeve of his expensive suit jacket.

The sharp pain in my stomach intensified, and I bit down hard on my lip to stop a cry from escaping. The metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth, but I barely registered it.

"Let go, Celina!" His voice was a low growl, laced with venom. He yanked his arm, trying to shake me off.

My grip faltered, but I couldn't completely release him. My fingers clung to the very edge of his jacket, a desperate, last-ditch effort. I was holding on by a thread, just like our marriage.

"Please, Broderick," I whispered, my voice trembling, each word a struggle. "I... I think I need to go to the hospital."

The words were forced out. I hated asking for anything, especially from him. He knew I was self-reliant, fiercely independent. This wasn't a trick. This wasn't some manipulative plea for attention. If I was asking, it meant something was truly wrong.

He turned, his eyes narrowing. "Where does it hurt?"

A sliver of relief, quickly followed by a fresh wave of nausea. I pointed vaguely to my lower abdomen, beads of sweat breaking out on my forehead.

He scoffed, a harsh, humorless sound. "Still playing games, Celina? Still acting for sympathy?" His words were like a pail of icy water dumped over my head, freezing me solid.

Before I could react, his hand shot out, grabbing my chin, forcing my face up to meet his scornful gaze. His grip was bruising.

"You know what?" His voice was dangerously low, a chilling whisper that promised irreversible damage. "I will never forgive you. Not for anything you' ve done. I hope you just... die."

The world spun. My blood ran cold, every cell in my body screaming in protest. I couldn't stop shaking, a violent tremor that started in my core and rattled through my limbs.

He let go of my chin, his eyes devoid of emotion. Without another glance, he strode into his study and the heavy oak door slammed shut, cutting off the last sliver of hope, leaving me alone in the vast, silent hall.

The pain in my abdomen exploded, sending me to my knees. I gasped, struggling for air, clutching my stomach as if to physically hold myself together. My vision blurred, tears mixing with sweat.

With a trembling hand, I fumbled for my phone in my pocket. My fingers, numb and clumsy, somehow managed to dial the emergency number.

Later that morning, Broderick heard the faint wail of an ambulance fading into the distance. It was a distant, almost imperceptible sound, easily dismissed. He stood by the window of his study, phone pressed to his ear, his face impassive. He assumed it was just another one of Celina's theatrics, a desperate attempt to manipulate him, perhaps to get her hands on his money now that her family was spiraling towards bankruptcy.

He remembered her past "betrayal" when his family had faced ruin. He believed she' d abandoned him then, seeking greener pastures. This was just more of the same. She was a gold-digger, an opportunist.

I sat on a sterile hospital bench, the fluorescent lights humming above me, casting a harsh glow on the stark white envelope in my hand. My name, Celina Fitzgerald, was printed neatly on the front. I knew what it contained even before I opened it.

The doctor' s words echoed in my head: "Terminal illness. Advanced stage."

The world tilted. It was a nightmare. It had to be. I ripped open the envelope, my eyes scanning the report, searching for a mistake, a typo, anything to contradict the horrific truth. But there it was, stark and undeniable.

"No," I whispered, my voice cracking.

I pushed myself off the bench, the pain in my stomach now a dull throb compared to the agony in my chest. I rushed to another doctor, a specialist whose name I' d heard. I begged him for a re-examination, a second opinion. He agreed, his eyes filled with a pity I couldn' t bear.

The results came back the same. A terminal illness. Confirmed.

"How... how long do I have?" I asked, the words barely a breath. My throat was tight, my eyes burning.

The specialist, a kind man with gentle eyes, knelt before me. He took my hand, his touch surprisingly warm. "We will do everything we can, Celina. We won' t give up."

His words were a balm, but they couldn't erase the cold, hard fact. I crumpled, fresh tears streaming down my face. "Everything you can?" I sobbed, the sound raw and broken. "It' s terminal. It' s... it' s over."

My illness wasn't just killing my body; it was a cruel metaphor for my marriage, for everything I had held onto. It was a failure I couldn't escape, a demise I couldn't prevent. Just like him, it was slowly, painfully, destroying me.

The house was steeped in a suffocating silence, each shadow elongated and menacing in the dim light. I sat alone in the living room, a solitary figure dwarfed by expensive furniture that felt alien to me. The air was heavy, thick with unspoken words and festering resentment.

Headlights cut through the inky blackness outside, slicing across the large picture window, a momentary flash that announced his arrival. My heart, already a bruised thing, gave a painful lurch.

The front door opened, letting in a gust of cold night air, and Broderick stepped inside. His hand went to the light switch, and the room was instantly flooded with a blinding, indifferent glare. He saw me, sitting there, but his gaze slid away, already focused on the stairs, his intention to disappear upstairs clear.

"Broderick." I spoke his name, a desperate plea in my voice, hoping to tether him to this moment, to me.

He didn't stop. His steps didn't falter, didn' t even slow. He kept moving, a phantom in his own home, leaving me struggling in his wake.

My hands clenched into tight fists, nails digging into my palms, the pain a welcome distraction from the deeper ache. I lifted my head, a fragile, determined smile on my lips.

"I want a divorce."

His steps faltered. He stopped. Slowly, he turned. Backlit by the harsh overhead light, his silhouette was formidable, unyielding. He looked less like a man and more like an imposing, unapproachable statue.

My eyes traced the sharp angles of his face, the strong jawline, the cold, distant eyes. Ten years. Ten years I had loved him, devoted myself to him. Ten years of sacrifice, of hoping for a love that would never bloom. It was time to let go. I shouldn't burden him anymore.

"Is this another one of your games, Celina?" His voice was flat, laced with barely concealed contempt. "Some new tactic to get what you want?"

I pushed myself up from the sofa, moving with a newfound resolve. My hand went to my purse, pulling out the neatly folded divorce papers. My fingers brushed against the familiar shape of the painkiller bottle inside. For a moment, my gaze lingered there, a quiet acknowledgment of the constant battle raging within my body. Then, I closed the purse, placing it deliberately on the coffee table, opting to hide my vulnerability for now.

I walked towards him, the signed document held out like a peace offering, or perhaps a surrender.

"I' m setting you free, Broderick," I said, forcing a light, almost cheerful tone that cracked at the edges. My smile felt brittle, fragile. "I don' t want to hold you back any longer."

A bitter thought flashed through my mind: If only I had known your heart belonged to someone else from the start, I would never have married you.

His eyes flickered to the signature line, then he snatched the papers from my hand. He didn' t read them. Instead, he slapped them against my shoulder, the papers rustling with ironic disdain.

"Trying to get a bigger cut of the assets now, are we?" he sneered, his lips curling in disgust.

I froze, the accusation a fresh wound. "No," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "I don' t want your money."

He said nothing, just stared at me, his gaze cold and disbelieving. The silence stretched, thick with his mistrust.

Three years ago, when his family faced ruin, I had disappeared for a short time, returning with a solution he refused to believe could be innocent. He heard rumors, saw me with another man-Justin Neal-a man whose powerful family could have saved his. He concluded I was a calculating woman, selling myself for wealth.

He remembered how his father had then forced him to marry me, a move he resented deeply, convinced it was my doing. His hatred for me had only festered since.

His eyes were filled with chilling contempt. "Get out, Celina."

I spread my arms, blocking his path. "I' m setting you free, Broderick," I repeated, a desperate sincerity in my voice now. "I don' t want anything. I' ll even sign a prenuptial agreement, if you want. A guarantee."

He looked at me, a strange, almost amused expression on his face. "There' s someone else," he said, his voice soft, almost lyrical, yet each word was an ice shard piercing my heart. "And I intend to marry her, with all the pomp and circumstance she deserves."

My breath hitched. The air left my lungs in a painful rush.

"And I can' t do that," he continued, his voice hardening, "while I' m still entangled with you."

The front door slammed shut, echoing through the hollow house. I heard the shower running in his bathroom, a steady spray of cold water. He was probably trying to wash away the lingering presence of me. His knuckles were white, clenched so tight they looked bloodless. He was hurting, too, in his own way, though I knew it wasn't for me.

I turned, my gaze falling on the divorce papers scattered on the floor. Slowly, I bent down and picked them up, smoothing out the creases. It was done.

My phone rang, a jarring sound in the quiet house. It was my mother. Her voice was frantic, choked with tears. "Your father... he' s ill, Celina! Critically ill!"

I rushed to the hospital. There, the truth hit me with the force of a tidal wave. My family' s business was on the brink of collapse, teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. Just like Broderick's had been, years ago.

His words, his accusations from earlier, suddenly made a chilling kind of sense. He had known. He had always known.

"You have to ask him for money, Celina!" My mother' s grip on my arm was fierce, her nails digging into my flesh. Her eyes, usually so calculating, were now wide with panic. "He owes it to us! Your father is dying!"

I flinched, pulling my arm away. My face was cold, my voice devoid of emotion. "He hates me, Mother. He won' t give us a dime."

Slap!

The sharp crack echoed in the sterile hospital corridor. My cheek stung, a burning sensation spreading across my face. My mother glared at me, her eyes blazing with fury. "Useless! You' re utterly useless!"

My lips trembled, but no sound escaped. A bitter cold seeped into my heart. I remembered another time, three years ago, when another man had threatened everything.

Flashback

Justin Neal. He had intercepted me, his face a mask of sinister charm. "I have proof," he'd purred, "of your mother's affair. A scandal that would destroy your family, and Broderick's reputation by association."

Then, the offer. "Leave Broderick. Publicly break off your engagement. In return, I will provide the funds to save his family's business. And yours."

I saw Broderick then, haggard and desperate, battling to keep his family afloat. His shoulders, usually so broad and confident, were slumped with the weight of responsibility. My heart ached to see him so broken.

If leaving him, if being misunderstood, meant saving him, then so be it. My love for him was absolute. I would take on any pain, any infamy, if it meant his survival.

I took Justin's money, saving both our families from ruin. Then, I found Broderick. I said hateful things, things that would cut him deep, pushing him away, making him believe I was the greedy, opportunistic woman he now thought I was. It had to be convincing.

I never thought I would see him again, not like that. Not as my husband.

End Flashback

But fate had other plans. The very next day, Broderick' s father sought me out. "Celina," he' d said, his eyes kind, "I understand the difficult position you were in. My son... he needs a wife. He needs you."

He was offering me a way back, a way to be close to Broderick, even if it was under false pretenses. Initially, I refused. My heart was broken, my pride in tatters.

Then, the next morning, my family received a substantial sum from Broderick's family. It was an arrangement, a transaction. My family, greedy and opportunistic, had sold me.

Broderick, forced into a marriage he didn' t want, had hated me ever since. He believed I had orchestrated the entire thing, using his father to trap him.

I walked out of my father' s hospital room, the familiar ache in my abdomen flaring up. I popped a painkiller, dry swallowing it, trying to ignore the bitter taste of my own life.

Then I saw her.

Standing just around the corner, her blonde hair catching the harsh hospital light, was Kacey Cotton. My best friend. And the woman Broderick loved.

Our eyes met. I quickly looked away, trying to escape, to avoid the inevitable confrontation. My heart hammered in my chest.

"Celina!" Her voice, sweet yet sharp, stopped me.

I clenched my jaw, my teeth grinding together, but I kept walking. I couldn't face her right now.

"Oh, Celina," she cooed, catching up to me, her hand landing lightly on my arm. Her eyes, usually so kind, now held a glint of malicious triumph. "I heard your family is going bankrupt. How sad."

I stopped, turning slowly to face her. "Get lost, Kacey," I said, my voice cold, a stark contrast to my usual gentle tone.

A smirk played on her lips. "Broderick is with me," she whispered, leaning closer, her breath warm against my ear. "He' s been here all night, worried sick about my condition. We were talking about our future."

My heart twisted, a raw, excruciating pain. I knew this, of course. I had known for a long time. But hearing it from her, delivered with such cruel satisfaction, was a different kind of torture.

"Good," I said, forcing a smile. It felt like my face would crack. "Then you two can discuss the divorce as well. I' ll make it easy for him."

Kacey laughed, a brittle, mocking sound. "Oh, Celina. Don' t you see? He' s not going to divorce you. He' s going to keep you tied to him, just to make you miserable." Her eyes sparkled with a predatory glint. "It' s his revenge, darling. For everything you' ve put him through."

She leaned in even closer, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "Did you know... he' s never even touched you? He told me. He said you were... dirty."

A wave of nausea washed over me. My vision blurred. She was insinuating I had been with Justin, that I was tainted. The lie he believed.

"Get your grubby hands off me, Kacey!" I snarled, pushing her away with a sudden, unexpected surge of anger.

She stumbled back, losing her footing. Her eyes, wide with feigned shock, met mine just as she reached the ground. She landed hard, a muffled thud echoing in the deserted corridor.

Just then, Broderick burst through the double doors at the end of the hall, his eyes scanning the scene. He saw Kacey on the floor, her face pale, her lips trembling. And he saw me, standing over her, my hand still outstretched from the push.

His eyes, when they met mine, were colder than the Arctic ice. Pure, unadulterated hatred.