My Dying Heart, His Cruel Vows

My fifth wedding anniversary gift was a call from my husband's publicist. He told me to come down to the 5th Precinct because there was a "situation." With my billionaire husband, Elijah, there was always a situation.

When I got there, I saw a young influencer accusing him of kidnapping. But the real shock wasn't the accusation. It was her face-she looked exactly like me, five years younger.

Elijah arrived, but instead of being angry, he showered her with affection, calling her "Kiley" and gifting her a diamond necklace. He treated the kidnapping claim like a lover's quarrel.

When his eyes finally met mine, the warmth vanished, replaced by ice. He looked at me like I was a piece of furniture. A cop muttered to his partner, "That's Mrs. Peters. The real one. Or, well, the first one."

He hates me. He blames me for his sister's death five years ago, believing I ran away and left her to die. He doesn't know I collapsed while running for help. He doesn't know about my terminal heart condition.

So he tortures me with my living replica, slowly killing the woman he vowed to love "till death do us part." The irony is, he doesn't have to try so hard. My doctor just told me I only have a few weeks left to live.

Chapter 1

Jamie POV:

My fifth wedding anniversary gift wasn't jewelry. It was a phone call from my husband's publicist.

The sterile, official tone on the other end of the line was a stark contrast to the hollow silence of the mansion I called home. "Mrs. Peters? This is Mark from Elijah's team. We have a bit of a situation. We need you to come down to the 5th Precinct."

A situation. With Elijah, there was always a "situation."

"What happened?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. My hand instinctively went to my chest, a familiar tightness beginning to bloom there, a cruel reminder of the clock ticking inside me.

"It's... better if you see for yourself, ma'am. It's a media frenzy."

The line went dead.

I didn't waste a second. I threw on a simple coat over my dress, my hands trembling as I fumbled with the buttons. The drive downtown was a blur of traffic lights and the blare of horns, each sound grating on my frayed nerves.

The 5th Precinct was exactly the circus Mark had described. Reporters swarmed the entrance like vultures, their cameras flashing, microphones thrust forward at anyone who looked even vaguely official. I slipped in through a side entrance a security guard held open for me, my heart pounding a frantic, unhealthy rhythm against my ribs.

The main hall was chaotic. And in the center of it all, I saw her.

She was young, maybe twenty, with the kind of fresh, vibrant beauty that seemed to radiate under the harsh fluorescent lights. She was surrounded by a small crowd of officers, her face a mask of theatrical distress. But it wasn't her youth or her drama that made the air leave my lungs.

It was her face.

She looked just like me. A younger, brighter, unbroken version of the woman I used to be five years ago.

"He kidnapped me!" she wailed, her voice carrying across the precinct. "The billionaire, Elijah Peters! He locked me in his penthouse for a week! It was a week of... of intense, passionate... torment!"

Her words were accusatory, but her tone was something else entirely. It was laced with a spoiled, pouting coyness, a thinly veiled boast. She wasn't a victim; she was an actress on a stage of her own making, and this precinct was her opening night.

A veteran cop with a weary face leaned against a desk, sipping coffee from a paper cup, utterly unfazed. He'd seen this show a thousand times.

"Another one?" he muttered to his partner, a fresh-faced rookie whose eyes were wide with indignation.

"Sir, shouldn't we be taking this seriously?" the rookie asked, his hand hovering near his notepad. "She's accusing one of the most powerful men in the city of kidnapping!"

The veteran cop let out a short, humorless laugh. "Kid, that's not a kidnapping. That's what rich people call a 'whirlwind romance.' Elijah Peters could buy this whole city block with the change in his pocket. You think he needs to kidnap a girl?"

The rookie frowned, confused. "But... isn't he married?"

The veteran cop's eyes flickered past the girl and, for a brief, humiliating moment, landed on me, standing in the shadows by the wall. A flicker of pity, or maybe just awkwardness, crossed his face. "Yeah. He is."

Just then, the main doors burst open. The sea of reporters outside surged, but they were held back by a wall of black-suited security. Elijah Peters strode through the parting crowd like a king entering his court.

He was as breathtakingly handsome as the day I first met him, his custom-tailored suit clinging to his powerful frame, his chiseled face cold and impassive. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, swept the room with an icy disinterest that made everyone instinctively shrink back.

Then his gaze landed on the young influencer, Kiley Smith.

And the ice melted.

In an instant, the cold billionaire was gone, replaced by a man consumed by a tender, all-encompassing affection. The change was so swift, so complete, it was like watching a mask drop. A mask he only ever wore for me now.

"Kiley," he murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble that sent a shiver of memory down my spine. He closed the distance between them in three long strides, cupping her face in his hands as if she were the most precious thing in the world. "Are you alright? Did they scare you?"

Kiley's lower lip trembled. "Elijah," she sobbed, throwing her arms around his neck. "You're terrible! You locked me up and wouldn't let me leave. My fans were all worried sick about me!"

"I know, I'm sorry," he whispered, his lips brushing her hair. He pulled back slightly, his thumb stroking her cheek. "But I missed you so much. Was I really that bad?" His voice was a playful, teasing caress.

"You were awful!" she pouted, though her eyes shone with triumph.

He chuckled, a low, warm sound that I hadn't heard directed at me in five years. "Then I'll have to make it up to you." He reached into his pocket and produced a small, velvet box. Inside was a breathtaking diamond necklace, the centerpiece a sapphire that perfectly matched his eyes.

Kiley gasped. "Oh, Elijah... you know me so well."

"I know everything about you," he said, his voice dropping again, thick with meaning. He fastened the necklace around her neck, his fingers lingering on her skin.

She feigned a pout. "I'm still mad."

"Then I'll just have to turn myself in," he said, holding his wrists out in mock surrender. "Lock me up, officer. I'm guilty of loving this woman too much."

Kiley finally broke into a giggle, her fake anger melting away. "You're impossible!" She threw her arms around him again, burying her face in his chest. "I love you, Elijah."

He held her tightly, stroking her back. "Let's go home," he murmured.

As they turned to leave, his eyes, still soft from gazing at her, swept across the room and snagged on mine.

The tenderness vanished. The ice returned, colder and harder than before. It was as if he' d looked at a piece of furniture, something unpleasant and out of place.

"Jamie," he said, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion. "What are you doing here?"

Before I could answer, Kiley spoke, her voice dripping with condescending sweetness. "Oh, Elijah, don't be cross. Your PR team called her. You know, to help with the... mess." She waved a dismissive hand, as if I were a janitor called to clean up a spill.

Elijah didn't even look at me again. His focus was entirely on Kiley, his new love, my living replica.

The veteran cop from before muttered to the rookie, his voice low but audible in the sudden quiet. "That's Mrs. Peters. The real one. Or, well, the first one."

My heart, already a fragile, failing organ, felt like it was being squeezed by an icy fist.

The first one. A wife in name only. A ghost haunting the halls of my own marriage.

It wasn't always like this.

I closed my eyes, and for a second, the precinct faded away, replaced by the memory of a sun-drenched garden. I was a scholarship student, quiet and out of my depth at a lavish party, and Corine Peters, Elijah's vivacious younger sister and my best friend, was trying to coax me out of my shell.

Elijah had been there, a remote, intimidating figure, older and already a legend in the tech world. He seemed to exist on a different plane, and I was terrified of him.

But then, he' d turned his attention to me. He' d brought me a glass of lemonade because he noticed I wasn't drinking. He' d talked to me about classic literature, a passion we discovered we shared. His smiles, reserved for everyone else, were warm and frequent for me.

"My brother's got it bad," Corine had whispered to me later, giggling. "I've never seen him look at anyone like that."

His courtship was a whirlwind of breathtaking romance. He pursued me with a gentle intensity that left me breathless. He made me feel like the only woman in the world. Our wedding was a fairy tale, broadcast across the globe.

At the altar, he'd taken my hands, his stormy eyes filled with a devotion that felt eternal. "I, Elijah Peters, take you, Jamie Leblanc, to be my wife," he'd vowed, his voice thick with emotion. "To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part."

I believed him. I believed every single word.

Our forever lasted less than a year.

The home invasion was a blur of violence and terror. Two masked men. Corine and I were alone. They were brutal. Corine, brave, beautiful Corine, saw a chance. She shoved me toward a low window. "Go, Jamie! Get help! Run!"

I ran. I ran for my life, for her life. But as my feet pounded the pavement, a crushing pain exploded in my chest. The world tilted, went black, and I collapsed. They found me hours later, unconscious on the side of the road.

By then, Corine was dead.

I woke up in a hospital to two sentences that destroyed my world.

"Corine didn't make it."

And from a cardiologist with a grim face, "I'm sorry, Ms. Leblanc... you have hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. It's terminal. At best, you have a few years."

My world shattered. But my own grief was eclipsed by Elijah's. His sorrow was a bottomless abyss that quickly curdled into a corrosive, all-consuming hatred.

He found me in my hospital bed, his eyes hollowed out by pain and rage. "Why?" he rasped, his voice a raw wound. "Why did you run away? Why did you leave her there to die?"

I opened my mouth to tell him. To tell him about the pain, about collapsing, about the faulty, traitorous heart in my chest that had failed me, that had failed her.

But looking at his ravaged face, the words died in my throat. What good would it do? Would it bring Corine back? No. It would only add another layer of pain to his already unbearable grief-the knowledge that the woman he loved was also dying.

So I stayed silent. I let him believe the worst. I let him believe I was a coward who had abandoned my best friend to save myself. My silence was my penance.

His love, once my sun, became a black hole of hate. He didn't divorce me. That would have been too kind. Instead, he married me, just as he'd promised, "till death do us part."

And then he began his slow, methodical torture.

He found Kiley Smith, a girl who looked so much like the Jamie he once loved. He showered her with all the affection, all the tenderness, all the public declarations he had once given me. He made her my replacement, a living, breathing effigy of his lost love, and forced me to watch.

Every gentle touch he gave her was a slap to my face. Every loving word a dagger to my heart. He was performing our love story with another actress, and I was the sole, captive audience. He was killing me slowly, piece by piece.

He didn't know the irony. I was already dying.

My doctor had called last week. "A few weeks, Jamie," he'd said, his voice gentle. "Maybe a month, if you're lucky."

I felt a strange sense of peace. The end was near. Soon, I would see Corine again. I could finally tell her I was sorry.

Jamie POV:

I left the precinct in a daze, the cacophony of the reporters fading into a dull roar in my ears. The world felt distant, separated from me by a thick pane of glass.

A sleek, black Maybach, Elijah's favorite, pulled up silently beside me. The window rolled down, revealing Kiley's bright, triumphant face.

"Get in, Jamie," she chirped, her voice sickeningly sweet. "Elijah said we should give you a ride. It's the least we can do."

I shook my head, turning to walk away. "I'll take a cab."

"Get in the car."

The voice came from the driver's seat. It was Elijah. The words were flat, cold, and laced with an authority that allowed no argument. It was an order, not an invitation.

Defeated, I pulled open the back door and slid onto the plush leather seat. The car smelled of Kiley's expensive perfume and Elijah's familiar, masculine scent-a combination that made my stomach churn.

"I'll drive!" Kiley announced brightly, unclipping her seatbelt.

Elijah didn't object. "Alright," he said, his voice softening into that indulgent tone he now reserved only for her. He got out and walked around the car, opening the driver's side door for her. He even leaned in to buckle her seatbelt, his movements patient and intimate.

The car lurched forward. Kiley was clearly not used to a vehicle of this size and power.

"Easy on the gas," Elijah said, his voice calm and gentle, not a hint of impatience in it. His hand rested on the back of her seat, his eyes watching her with a focused tenderness that made my own heart ache with a phantom pain.

"This car is so big," Kiley complained, her voice a childish whine. "And I think the seat is too far back."

"Here, let me see." He leaned over, his body pressing close to hers, his arm brushing her chest as he reached for the adjustment lever. The gesture was so casual, so proprietary.

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my face against the cool glass of the window. In the reflection, I saw them-the handsome billionaire and his beautiful young lover, framed together in a perfect picture of domestic bliss. And I was the unwanted spectator, trapped in the back seat of my own life.

I remembered when he taught me to drive this very car. His patience, his low laughter when I stalled it, the way his hand would cover mine on the gearshift, sending sparks up my arm. That tenderness, once exclusively mine, was now a spectacle for my torment.

Suddenly, a flash of brown fur shot across the road. A deer.

Kiley screamed, her hands flying off the wheel. In her panic, her foot slammed down not on the brake, but on the accelerator.

The powerful engine roared. The world outside became a sickening green and brown blur as the car veered sharply, smashing through the guardrail. For a split second, we were airborne, suspended over the dark, churning water of the river below.

In that last, terrifying moment, I saw Elijah move. He didn't hesitate. He didn't look back. With a speed that defied thought, he lunged across the console, twisting his body to shield Kiley, wrapping her in his arms as the car plunged into the abyss.

He didn't even glance at me.

Not once.

The impact was a jarring shock of violence and cold. Icy water rushed into the car, a crushing weight that stole my breath. Panic seized me, raw and primal.

But beneath the panic, a deeper, colder feeling spread through my chest, more chilling than the river water. It was the absolute certainty of being abandoned. Utterly and completely.

When we were first married, we' d been caught in a small earthquake in California. A heavy bookshelf had started to topple, and without a thought, Elijah had thrown himself over me, taking the full impact on his back. He' d held me, whispering, "I've got you, Jamie. I'll always have you," until the shaking stopped.

Now, as the water filled my lungs and my vision began to fade to black, the last thing I saw was Elijah, a powerful silhouette against the murky light filtering from above, kicking his way to the surface.

He was holding Kiley in his arms.

I woke to the sterile smell of antiseptic and the soft beeping of a machine. My throat was raw, my body ached with a profound, bone-deep weariness.

I was in a hospital. Again.

Faintly, I could hear Elijah's voice from the hallway, tight with anger and fear. "What do you mean you don't know why she's not waking up? You're doctors! Do your damn job!"

A small, treacherous flicker of hope ignited in my chest. Was he worried? About me?

"Mr. Peters, please," a nurse's voice pleaded. "Her condition is... complicated. We found some old records. From five years ago. We need to talk to you about her heart-"

"Elijah?" A weak, tearful voice interrupted them. "Elijah, where are you?"

It was Kiley.

I watched through the slit of my barely open eyelids as Elijah's entire posture changed. The anger and tension drained out of him, replaced by that familiar, soul-crushing tenderness.

He didn't even glance into my room. He just turned and walked toward the sound of her voice.

I lay on the starched white sheets, staring at the ceiling, and watched the flicker of hope die.

He never wanted to know the truth. Not about that night five years ago, and not now. It was easier to hate me.

And maybe... maybe it was better this way. If he knew I was dying, what would he do? Pity me? That would be a fate worse than his hatred. Or worse, would he mock me? Tell me it was karma, a fitting end for the coward who let his sister die?

The thought was a shard of glass in my gut. Yes. It was better that he never knew.

I was discharged two days later. Elijah never came. He was, I learned from a gossip magazine left in the waiting room, accompanying a "recovering and traumatized" Kiley on a private wellness retreat in the Caribbean.

The mansion was colder and emptier than ever. It wasn't a home; it was a mausoleum for a dead marriage.

I didn't waste any time. My own death was no longer an abstract concept, but an imminent reality. There were things to be done.

My first stop was a small, quiet photo studio in an old part of town. The photographer, a kind-eyed man in his sixties, looked at me with confusion when I told him what I wanted.

"A... a portrait?" he asked, adjusting his glasses. "For what occasion, miss?"

"A memorial," I said, my voice steady.

He stared at me, his mouth slightly agape. "But... you're so young."

"Please," I said, my voice not wavering. "Just make me look peaceful."

The final photograph was haunting. It captured the delicate structure of my face, the pallor of my skin, but my eyes... my eyes were empty. All the love, the pain, the hope, and the despair had been burned away, leaving behind only a still, quiet nothingness. It was perfect.

Next, I went to a funeral home. I chose the simplest urn, a plain white porcelain jar. It was smooth and cold to the touch, much like my heart had become.

My last stop was the cemetery. I wanted to be buried next to Corine. It was the only place I felt I belonged.

We had made a silly pact once, on a summer afternoon, lying on the grass and staring at the clouds. "If I die first," Corine had said dramatically, "you have to promise to visit me every week and tell me all the gossip."

"And you have to save me a spot," I'd laughed. "Best friends forever, even in the afterlife."

"Deal," she'd said, linking her pinky with mine.

I found her grave, the polished marble gleaming in the weak afternoon sun. I knelt and traced the letters of her name, my fingers lingering on her smiling face etched into the stone. I wiped away a bit of dust from her picture.

"Hi, Corine," I whispered, my throat tight. "I'm sorry it took me so long to come see you. I'm coming to stay soon. For good this time."

Tears I didn't know I had left began to fall, silent and hot, splashing onto the cold stone.

"He hates me so much," I confessed to her, the words tearing from my soul. "He thinks I left you. But I didn't, Corine, I swear I didn't. My heart... it just gave out. And it's giving out again. For good this time."

A single, fat tear rolled down my cheek and landed right on her stone-carved smile.

"But it's okay," I whispered. "I'm coming now. We can be together again."

A twig snapped behind me.

The sound was soft, but it echoed in the silence of the cemetery like a gunshot.

My body went rigid. Slowly, painfully, I turned my head.

Standing not twenty feet away, silhouetted against the setting sun, was Elijah. He was holding a bouquet of Corine's favorite white lilies.

And clinging to his arm, looking bored and impatient, was Kiley.

Jamie POV:

The moment Elijah's eyes locked onto mine, the soft grief on his face vanished, replaced by a flash of pure, unadulterated fury. It was a physical force, a wave of animosity so intense it made me flinch.

"What are you doing here?" he snarled, his voice like the crack of a whip in the hallowed silence.

He took a step forward, his handsome face twisted into a mask of contempt. "You have no right. Get out."

I pushed myself up, my hand flat against Corine's cold headstone for support. My legs felt weak, my whole body trembled. "Elijah, I just wanted to... to see her." My voice came out as a ragged, desperate plea.

He let out a bark of laughter, a sound completely devoid of humor. "See her? You? That's the funniest thing I've heard all year." He stalked towards me, his shadow falling over me, engulfing me. "You, who ran away and left her to die, have the audacity to come here and pretend to mourn?"

He was so close now I could feel the heat radiating from his body, the scent of his cologne mixing with the damp earth. His hand shot out, and his fingers wrapped around my throat.

The pressure was immense. Black spots danced in my vision.

"You should have been the one in this grave," he hissed, his face inches from mine, his eyes burning with a pain so deep it was terrifying. "She pushed you out. She saved you. And you just ran."

I couldn't breathe. The world was narrowing to a dark tunnel. But I didn't struggle. I didn't fight back. A strange, serene thought drifted through the panic: Let it end. Please, just let it end here. It' s a fitting punishment. A way to atone.

Just as my consciousness began to fray, he abruptly let go.

I collapsed to the ground, gasping, coughing, sucking in desperate gulps of air that felt like fire in my lungs. Through my watery eyes, I saw it. A flicker of something in his own. It wasn't pity. It was a complex, agonized torment, a war raging within him before it was brutally suppressed.

For a wild, foolish second, I wondered if there was still a part of him that couldn't bear to kill me with his own hands.

"Elijah, darling, what are you doing?" Kiley's petulant voice shattered the moment. She trotted over, wrapping her arm possessively through his. "Don't waste your time on... her. Corine is waiting for us."

Elijah's eyes went shuttered and cold. The fleeting vulnerability was gone, locked away. He turned from me as if I were a piece of trash on the ground, taking the flowers from Kiley and gently placing them before Corine's headstone.

He didn't look at me again. "Let's go," he said to Kiley, his voice low.

"But my feet hurt," she whined, leaning against him. "These heels are killing me."

Without a word, Elijah crouched down, his broad back facing her. She giggled and climbed on. He rose effortlessly, piggybacking her as he walked away from his sister's grave, away from me.

I watched them go, her arms wrapped around his neck, her head resting on his shoulder. The image was a knife, twisting in my heart, scraping against old wounds until they bled anew.

I remembered a time, years ago, when we had gone hiking. I'd sprained my ankle, and he had carried me down the mountain just like that. He had complained the whole way, teasing me about how much I ate, but his arms had been a fortress, his back a safe harbor.

" You' re going to get so fat, Jamie-bean," I remembered him grunting with a grin. " I' m going to have to start working out twice a day just to carry you."

Corine had trotted alongside us, laughing. " Don' t listen to him, Jamie! He loves it. My brother, the big strong hero!"

Now, all of it-the love, the laughter, the tenderness-was gone. It all belonged to someone else. It had all been a lie.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing myself to my feet, and silently followed them.

When we reached the car, Elijah glanced at me over his shoulder, his eyes filled with disgust. "Get in."

I froze.

"Don't you dare defile my sister's resting place with your presence any longer," he spat, each word a venom-tipped dart. "I'm taking you back to that cage you call a home."

My jaw tightened, but I said nothing. I slid into the back seat, a prisoner being escorted back to her cell. I had a feeling I would never be allowed to visit Corine again. This was my goodbye.

The drive down the winding mountain road was excruciating. Kiley, now in the passenger seat, was all over Elijah, her hands roaming his chest, her lips pressing against his jaw.

"Baby," she purred, her voice loud enough for me to hear clearly. "It's been so long since we've been in the car together."

Elijah' s jaw muscle jumped. "Kiley, stop. I'm driving." His voice was a low growl, strained with a desire he was trying to suppress.

She giggled, undeterred, and leaned in to whisper something in his ear. Her hand slid lower, disappearing from my sight.

His knuckles went white on the steering wheel. I saw his throat work as he swallowed hard.

His eyes flickered to the rearview mirror, meeting mine. There was no warmth, no apology. Only a cold, cruel challenge.

Then he slammed on the brakes and wrenched the steering wheel, pulling the car over onto the narrow shoulder of the road.

He turned, his gaze locking onto me. His eyes were dark, his voice devoid of any emotion.

"Get out."

My blood ran cold. "What?"

"I said, get out," he repeated, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Now."

My fingers clenched the fabric of my coat. I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Jamie," he said, his voice laced with venomous impatience. "Don't make me say it a third time."

Trembling, I pushed the door open and stumbled out onto the gravel shoulder. The car door slammed shut behind me with a sound of finality.

And then, I heard it. The car began to rock. The windows were tinted, but I didn't need to see. Her soft moans, his guttural groans, the rhythmic creak of the suspension-it was all a symphony of my own personal hell, performed for an audience of one.