My Faked Death, His Endless Torment

I was dying from a mysterious illness, but my family, including my fiancé King, dismissed me as a drama queen. At my adopted sister Isabel' s promotion party, my body finally gave out and I collapsed, coughing up blood.

Instead of helping, King accused me of ruining Isabel's big night. He tore up my terminal diagnosis report right in front of me, sneering that I'd do anything for attention.

Completely broken, I annulled our engagement and fled to a rundown motel to die alone. But Isabel found me. With a triumphant smile, she confessed everything-she had been slowly poisoning me for years, a plot to steal my health, my family's love, and King himself.

She had no idea her entire monstrous confession was being recorded by a device left in the room.

I sent that audio file to everyone and, with the help of a kind stranger, faked my own death. Years later, I had a new life, a new name, and a quiet peace I never thought possible. Then one day, a broken, haunted man walked into my seaside café, clutching a faded photo of me.

It was King.

Chapter 1

Ela Campbell POV:

The bitter taste of blood filled my mouth, metallic and coppery, a familiar prelude to what was coming. I was dying. A slow, agonizing decay from within, but no one believed me. Not my parents, who saw only a fragile burden. Not my fiancé, King, who now stood over me, his powerful frame radiating a cold fury that chilled me more than the fever gripping my bones.

"What in the hell do you think you're doing, Ela?" King's voice was a low growl, vibrating through the plush carpet of the ballroom. His hand, usually so firm and warm, clamped around my wrist with bruising force. "Are you trying to ruin Isabel's night? Her promotion is a huge deal."

I tried to pull away, but his grip was iron. My head swam, the opulent chandelier above spinning into a blurry halo. The scent of champagne and expensive perfume, once intoxicating, now made my stomach churn.

Then, a soft, concerned voice drifted to us. "King, darling, is everything alright? Oh, Ela, what happened? You look... unwell."

Isabel. Always the picture of perfect concern, her blonde hair shimmering under the lights, her blue eyes wide and innocent. She wore a dress the color of ice, a stark contrast to the dark circles under my own eyes, a testament to sleepless nights wracked with pain. She looked like an angel, and I, a shadow.

King' s gaze softened for a fleeting second as it met Isabel' s. "She's just being dramatic, Isabel. You know how she is." He turned back to me, his eyes hardening. "This is your sister's moment, Ela. You couldn't even manage to be happy for her, could you? Always finding a way to make it about you."

A sharp pain shot through my chest, not from my illness, but from the raw injustice of his words. It was Isabel' s promotion to VP, a celebration I had barely managed to drag myself to. My parents, Johnie and Clarissa, beamed from across the room, their faces alight with pride for their perfect adopted daughter. They had postponed a crucial board meeting, a meeting that would have discussed my failing health, just for this.

Before I could form a response, the world tilted. My knees buckled. King, instead of catching me, instinctively pulled his hand away. I hit the marble floor with a thud, the impact jarring my already fragile body. A searing pain shot up my arm as I tried to brace myself. My vision blurred.

I lay there for a moment, the cold marble seeping into my skin. It was Isabel' s promotion. Of course. The biggest night of her career, and I was once again the problem. The thought was a dull ache beneath the sharp physical pain. My parents had told me just this morning, in their clipped, impatient tones, that my doctor' s appointment could wait. Isabel' s success was paramount. My life, it seemed, was secondary to her triumphs.

I bit back a sob, tasting more blood. This wasn't the first time my pleas for help had been met with dismissal. For years, I' d tried to explain the crushing fatigue, the constant aches, the dizzy spells. Each time, I was met with eye-rolls, hushed whispers of "attention-seeking," or King's cold, dismissive glares. I tried to suppress the wave of nausea, the burning in my throat.

It was too late. A violent cough wracked my body, tearing through my chest. My hand flew to my mouth, but it wasn't enough. When I pulled it away, scarlet stained my fingertips.

The silence that followed was deafening. King' s eyes, which moments ago had been filled with anger, now held a flicker of something else-disbelief? Concern?

"I... I'm sick, King," I whispered, my voice hoarse, a desperate plea. "The doctor said it's serious. I need to get out of here. I can't breathe."

His gaze dropped to the blood on my hand. For a split second, I saw a shadow of the old King, the one who used to worry when I caught a simple cold. My heart fluttered with a fragile, foolish hope.

But then, Isabel was there, her hand fluttering to her chest. "Oh, Ela, my poor sister. You really shouldn't work yourself up so much. You know how sensitive you are. Perhaps it's just a little anxiety attack from all the excitement?" Her voice was laced with saccharine sweetness, but her eyes, when they briefly met mine, held a glint of triumph.

My mother, Clarissa, who had finally made her way over, looked down at me with an expression of barely concealed irritation. "Ela, darling, must you always be so dramatic? Isabel is right. You're fine. You just want attention, don't you?" Her words were a familiar blade, twisting in an old wound.

King' s face hardened again, the brief flicker of doubt vanishing. "Are you listening to this, Ela? Look at the scene you're causing. You always do this. It's always about you, isn't it? You're ruining everything." His voice was low, menacing. He leaned closer, his breath hot against my ear. "If you don't pick yourself up right now, I swear, I will drag you out of here myself."

Isabel, with a soft whimper, buried her face in my mother' s shoulder. "It's okay, Mama. I understand. Ela just needs a lie-down. I shouldn't have wished for this promotion so hard if it upset her." She sniffled, her performance flawless. "It's all my fault."

My parents, of course, rushed to comfort her. "Nonsense, sweetie," my father, Johnie, murmured, patting her back. "You deserve all of this and more. Ela is just... being Ela. Don't let her spoil your happiness." They spoke as if I wasn't even there, a ghost haunting their perfect family tableau.

I watched them, the once warm cocoon of family affection now completely wrapped around Isabel. My parents, who had once patiently taught me to ride a bike, who had praised my childish drawings, now looked at me with thinly veiled disdain. Isabel, who had been adopted when I was ten, had seamlessly replaced me as the cherished daughter. Every achievement of hers was celebrated, every struggle of mine dismissed.

A strange calm began to settle over me. Death, it seemed, was not a frightening end, but a quiet escape. A release from this constant, suffocating disappointment.

Another cough, this one deeper, more violent. More blood. It splattered onto the pristine white marble floor, a stark, ugly contrast to the glittering shoes and silk gowns around us.

King' s eyes narrowed, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "What is this, Ela? More theatrics?" He bent down, snatching a crumpled paper from my hand, the medical report I' d been clutching. He unfolded it with an impatient flick. His eyes scanned the words, his face devoid of emotion. "Terminal diagnosis? Chronic poisoning? This is ridiculous. Another one of your games, trying to get out of our contract?" He let out a harsh laugh, a sound that tore through me. "Unbelievable. You'll do anything for attention, won't you?"

Then, with a contemptuous sneer, he ripped the paper in half, then again, the sound echoing in the sudden silence of the ballroom. The shredded pieces fluttered to the floor like fallen snowflakes, each one a shard of my last hope.

I stared at him, my heart a hollow space in my chest. I remembered a time, long ago, when his eyes held warmth, when he' d look at me with tenderness, a flash of shared laughter. Now, they were cold, distant, filled only with contempt. That King was gone, replaced by this cruel stranger.

I pushed myself up, using the nearest pillar for support. "King," I said, my voice surprisingly steady despite the tremor in my hands. "I need you to call the family lawyer. I want to annul our engagement contract tonight. No delays."

His head snapped up, his eyes blazing. "Annul the contract? Are you insane, Ela? After everything we've built? After the merger? You think you can just walk away?" He took a step towards me, his intention clear.

"Yes," I said, meeting his furious gaze. "I can. And I will." He opened his mouth to retort, but I turned my back on him then, my gaze sweeping over the faces of my stunned parents and Isabel, who watched with a mixture of feigned alarm and genuine glee. I had nothing left to lose. King could shout all he wanted. It no longer mattered.

"Let's go, Isabel," King snarled, his voice a furious whisper. "This farce is over." He grabbed Isabel's arm, pulling her away from her crying mother. "We have an image to maintain." He didn't even glance back at me as he strode out, Isabel clinging to his arm, casting a triumphant look over her shoulder. The ballroom doors swung shut, leaving me utterly alone amidst the lingering scent of their perfect, poisoned world.

Ela Campbell POV:

King was gone. Isabel was gone. My parents, after a brief, exasperated glance, followed them, leaving me stranded in the deserted ballroom, the echoes of their disdain still ringing in my ears. Isabel's night. Always about you, Ela. Attention-seeking.

I let out a shaky breath, a weak, humorless laugh escaping my lips. Annul the contract, I had said. As if a piece of paper could sever the twisted roots that bound us. But it was a start. A final, desperate attempt to reclaim what little dignity I had left before the end.

The family lawyer, Mr. Thompson, a portly man whose loyalty lay strictly with the Campbell and Hayes empires, appeared moments later, summoned by some unseen force. He looked at me with a mixture of pity and annoyance. "Miss Campbell. Are you quite sure about this?"

"Never more sure," I said, my voice stronger than I felt. "Make it happen. Tonight. I want nothing from them."

He gave a sigh, a puff of resignation. "Very well. I will initiate the proceedings. But understand, this is... unprecedented."

I didn't care about unprecedented. I just wanted out. I signed the preliminary documents, my hand trembling slightly, leaving a faint blood smudge on the pristine parchment. The ink felt cold beneath my fingertips, a chilling finality. I told him I would be unreachable after midnight. By then, it wouldn't matter.

Mr. Thompson left, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous hall. I watched his retreating figure, then glanced out the window. The city lights glittered indifferently, a million tiny stars mocking my pain. King and Isabel were probably in a taxi by now, heading to some exclusive club, celebrating her promotion and my spectacular public meltdown. While they reveled, I would be quietly erasing myself from their lives.

I walked out of the ballroom, the cool night air a welcome relief against my flushed skin. My designated driver was already gone, dismissed, no doubt, by King's orders. I hailed a cab. "The old Hayes estate," I instructed, giving the address for the property King and I had shared, the place I supposed I still called 'home.'

I needed to collect my things. What few things were left for me, anyway.

When the cab pulled up to the sprawling estate, the house was dark, silent, a mausoleum. I let myself in with a key card that probably wouldn't work again after tonight. The grand foyer, usually buzzing with staff, was empty.

My steps echoed as I made my way to what used to be my room, the master suite. But when I pushed open the heavy oak door, a jolt went through me. It wasn' t my room anymore. The familiar minimalist decor had been replaced by vibrant colors, plush fabrics, and a distinct feminine scent that wasn't mine. Isabel's belongings were everywhere. Her silk scarves draped over a chair, her makeup scattered on the vanity, her glittering shoes lined up neatly in what used to be my closet. My heart sank. They hadn't even waited for me to leave.

My things, all of them, had been relegated to a small, dusty guest room at the back of the house, a room usually reserved for distant relatives or forgotten staff. My antique jewelry box, a cherished gift from my grandmother, was shoved haphazardly onto a shelf, its contents spilling out. My favorite books, once neatly arranged, lay in a disordered pile on the floor.

A wave of emptiness washed over me. Even my space had been taken. My identity systematically erased.

I started to gather my belongings, my movements slow and deliberate. My fingers brushed against a small, velvet-covered box. Inside, nestled on a silken cushion, was a delicate silver locket. It was a gift from King, given to me on our first anniversary. He had engraved it with our initials, intertwined. E.C. + K.H.

I picked it up, feeling the cool metal against my skin. A faint memory stirred-a younger, happier King, his eyes full of affection, placing it around my neck. "To remind you, Ela, that you're always with me."

I ran my thumb over the engraved letters, now faded and worn. The irony was a bitter pill. He had forgotten. Forgotten me, forgotten us.

I placed the locket into a small, nondescript travel bag. This wasn't a home anymore. It was just a house, and I was merely a fleeting guest.

As I surveyed the desolate room, the phone on the bedside table rang, startling me. I hesitated, then answered. "Hello?"

"Ela Campbell?" A professional, sympathetic voice on the other end. "This is Willow Creek Memorial. We're calling about your... arrangements. We have a beautiful plot available, overlooking the valley. Would you like us to finalize the details?"

Arrangements. My funeral arrangements. They were calling about my last resting place. A cold shiver ran down my spine, despite the fever. "How much... how much does it cost?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

There was a pause. "Miss Campbell, the package we discussed is quite extensive. It includes..."

"No," I interrupted, a sudden surge of defiance. "No, thank you. I don't need it." I hung up before they could protest. I wouldn't spend my last penny on a beautiful plot for a body that had been so unloved in life. I would disappear, unmourned, unremembered.

Just then, the door creaked open. King stood there, his shadow long and menacing in the dim hallway light. He had followed me.

His eyes swept over the cramped, dusty room, then landed on me, standing amidst the scattered remnants of my life. A flicker of distaste crossed his face. "What is this stench?" he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sniffed the air, as if searching for something familiar, something that belonged to the woman he thought he knew. "It smells like... decay."

He stopped himself, then seemed to push down his discomfort. "Who was that on the phone?" His voice was cold, accusatory. "Were you trying to stir up trouble again, Ela? Playing the victim for attention?"

My heart clenched. Even now, he thought the worst of me. "It was the funeral home," I said, my voice flat. "They were calling about my arrangements."

His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. "Don't be absurd. You're not going anywhere." He strode towards me, his jaw clenched. "This contract, Ela, it's not simply an engagement. It's a merger. It binds our families, our companies. You think you can just annul it because you're having another one of your episodes?"

"I'm not having an episode," I said, my voice rising. "I'm dying, King. And I won't spend my last days tied to a man who despises me, to a family that sees me as a burden."

"Despises you?" He scoffed, a harsh, humorless sound. "Don't flatter yourself. I simply have no time for your dramatics. You were a means to an end, Ela. A necessary alliance. Nothing more." He took another step, closing the distance between us. "But you're not getting out of it. Not now, not ever. You belong to me, Ela Campbell. And everything you have belongs to me too."

His words slammed into me, knocking the air from my lungs. Belong to him. He had claimed my body, my name, my future. Now, he wanted to claim my past, my present, my very right to cease existing on my own terms. There was nothing left for me to lose.

"What about our child, King?" My voice was barely a whisper, ragged with the pain I had suppressed for so long. "Did that belong to you too?"

Ela Campbell POV:

King froze. His powerful shoulders tensed, and his eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, seemed to lose focus for a brief moment. His gaze drifted past me, landing on the small, silver locket I had placed on the dusty bedside table. The worn initials, E.C. + K.H., seemed to mock him from the tarnished metal.

Then, the moment passed. His eyes hardened again, the brief flicker of confusion replaced by a familiar cold indifference. "Don't try to manipulate me, Ela. We agreed. No children until the merger was fully integrated. It was a mutual decision." His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

"Mutual?" A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "You told me it was 'ill-timed.' You said we needed to focus on the business. You said we had plenty of time after the deal was done." My voice cracked. "Remember when you promised we'd visit the seaside cottage every summer once we had a family? The one with the little garden you loved?"

He turned away, a dismissive wave of his hand. "Childish fantasies, Ela. We had important things to discuss. Business matters."

"Important things?" I felt a desperate need to make him see, to make him remember. "Do you remember the date of our engagement, King? Do you remember my birthday? Do you remember the first time you said you loved me?" My voice rose, a desperate cry against his impenetrable indifference. "You forgot them all. Every single one. But I bet you remember Isabel's promotion date, don't you? Her favorite flower? The exact shade of lipstick she wears?"

His head whipped around, his eyes blazing with a dangerous fury. "Enough, Ela! This self-pity is pathetic. I have a company to run, a legacy to uphold. I can't be bothered with trivial dates and sentimental nonsense." He jabbed a finger in my direction. "And as for Isabel, she's a valuable asset to Hayes Industries. She works hard. She doesn't spend her days wallowing in self-pity and fabricating illnesses for attention."

"You're right," I said, the fight draining out of me. My shoulders slumped. "I am pathetic. I am a burden. I am everything you say I am." I turned my back to him, the last sliver of hope shriveling and dying inside me. I couldn't look at him anymore. I couldn't bear the contempt in his eyes.

"The annulment papers are on the desk in the study," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "Signed. Mr. Thompson has them. They'll be official by midnight. Read them then, if you care."

He stood there for a long moment, a silent, imposing presence. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out, his footsteps heavy and final. The door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the dusty guest room, surrounded by the ghosts of my forgotten life.

The night stretched on, long and desolate. The hours crawled by, each tick of the clock a countdown to my own quiet expiration. I lay on the narrow bed, the cheap mattress digging into my aching back, listening to the silence of the house. My body felt like a lead weight, heavy and unresponsive, my lungs burning with every shallow breath. I counted the seconds, the minutes, feeling my life force slowly ebb away. Two hours. One hour. Thirty minutes.

Just as the digital clock on my phone blinked to 12:00 AM, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the quiet house. Then, a loud bang as the front door burst open. My parents were home. And they were angry.

My door flew open, slamming against the wall with a force that made me jump. My father, Johnie, stood framed in the doorway, his face a mask of rage. My mother, Clarissa, hovered anxiously behind him, her expression a mixture of fury and embarrassment.

"Ela! What have you done?" Johnie' s voice boomed, shaking the small room. "Isabel is in hysterics! King had to carry her out of the ballroom! She's terrified you're going to ruin everything for her!" He took a step into the room, his eyes blazing. "You need to apologize, Ela. Now."

I just stared at him, my heart breaking into a thousand pieces. Apologize for what? For dying? For wanting a moment of peace? I closed my eyes, a silent prayer for strength. Just a little longer, Ela. Just a little longer.

I remembered a time when my father's anger was a rare, terrifying thing, reserved for grave offenses. When I was small, he was my hero, my protector. He would sit by my bedside when I was sick, reading me stories, his voice a comforting rumble. He taught me to ride my first bicycle, holding on tight until I found my balance, his booming laugh echoing in the summer air when I finally pedaled away on my own.

But that was before Isabel. Before her brilliance eclipsed my quiet nature. She was the star athlete, the top student, the effortlessly charming socialite. My father, once so patient with my artistic pursuits, my love for quiet reading, slowly began to see them as weaknesses.

"Look at Isabel," he'd say, a hint of disappointment in his voice. "So strong, so ambitious. Why can't you be more like her, Ela?"

My illness, which had started subtly in my late teens, only deepened his disapproval. The constant fatigue, the chronic pain, the fragile immune system – they were all just further proof of my inadequacy. My doctors were baffled, attributing my symptoms to "stress" or "fibromyalgia," whispering about my "delicate constitution." My parents took their cues from these vague diagnoses, dismissing my suffering as a ploy for attention.

"Isabel gets promoted, she conquers the corporate ladder," my father continued, his voice dripping with contempt. "And what do you do, Ela? You lie around, you get sick, you cause scandals. You're an embarrassment!" He threw his hands up in exasperation. "What good are you to us? To King? To anyone?"

His words were a physical blow, worse than any King had inflicted. What good are you? The question echoed in my mind, a cruel, familiar refrain. Isabel, his golden child, was everything I wasn't. Her successes were his triumphs, her charm, his pride. I was simply the shadow that dimmed their light.