Our Love, Our Mutual Destruction

I was dying of cancer when my destructive ex, Brooks Ferguson, returned to Seattle. The first thing he did was demolish my late father's record store.

But his new fiancée, Grace, delivered the final blow. With a vicious smile, she cornered me and poured my mother's ashes onto the filthy street.

I snapped. I rammed my vintage Mustang into her convertible-twice. I woke up in the hospital, coughing up blood, just in time to see Brooks on the news.

"When I find her," he snarled to the cameras, "I' m going to enjoy breaking every single bone in her body."

He had no idea the cancer, accelerated by his cruelty, was already killing me.

He wanted my body? Fine. I refused all treatment and arranged for the hospital to call him. My final revenge wasn't to fight him. It was to die and make him claim the corpse of the woman he destroyed.

Chapter 1

Dahlia POV:

Brooks Ferguson and I had a ten-year history of mutual destruction, a storm of passion that left us both scarred. We were each other' s greatest love and greatest source of pain. We' d finally called a truce three years ago, a fragile peace I clung to as my world quietly fell apart. Then, he came back to Seattle.

And the first thing he did was set my world on fire.

Figuratively, at first. A notice from the city, cold and official, declaring my record store, "The Groove," a historical hazard slated for demolition. My store. The last gift from my father.

The second thing he did was far more literal. He sent his goons. They didn't just smash the windows; they shattered the display cases, snapped vintage vinyls in half, and kicked over the espresso machine until it hissed its last breath.

I found the man who led the demolition crew, a brute with a smug grin, and I broke his nose with a rusted tire iron I kept behind the counter.

He spat blood on the floor. "He said you'd do something like this."

Brooks arrived minutes later, stepping out of a gleaming Porsche, looking impeccable in a suit that cost more than my entire inventory. He tossed a check at my feet. "For the damages," he said, his voice a low, bored drawl. "And for your trouble."

I didn' t pick it up.

"It's not enough, is it?" he mused, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "You always want more, Dahlia."

I wanted to tell him that what I wanted was peace. A quiet end. But the fire in me, the one he always loved to stoke, wouldn't let me be a passive victim. Not even now.

Not when the doctors had already told me there was no more time.

The fluorescent lights of the hospital hallway flickered, casting a sickly yellow glow on everything. I leaned against the cool wall, the paper cup of water trembling in my hand. Two nurses walked past, their voices low whispers.

"The one in 302. Dahlia Jarvis. Poor thing."

"So young. The aggressive kind, you know. The scans are just... covered. It' s a miracle she's even walking."

Their voices faded, but one last sentence snagged in the air, sharp and clear. "No family listed. Who's going to claim her body?"

Who's going to claim my body?

The question echoed in the sterile silence. It was a practical problem, a final, grim piece of paperwork in a life about to be stamped 'closed'. I looked down at my phone, my thumb hovering over a number I hadn't dialed in three years. A number I knew by heart.

I pressed call.

He answered on the second ring, his voice impatient. "What?"

A bleak, ironic smile touched my lips. "Brooks," I said, my own voice sounding distant and hollow. "I have a request."

"I'm listening."

"When I die," I said, the words tasting like ash, "I need you to claim my body."

The rain fell in relentless sheets, blurring the city lights outside the new, temporary space I' d rented for The Groove. It was smaller, cleaner, and had none of the soul of the old place. I wiped down the counter, the smell of fresh paint and cheap coffee a poor substitute for worn wood and vinyl dust.

The small TV in the corner was on, the volume low. A local news anchor was gushing about Seattle' s returning titan of industry.

"Brooks Ferguson, the private equity magnate, is back in his hometown with a bang, announcing a multi-billion dollar urban renewal project..."

The screen showed him at a press conference, looking every bit the ruthless king he was.

The bell on the door chimed, and a young woman stepped in, shaking a designer umbrella. She was flawless, her trench coat immaculate, her blonde hair styled into effortless waves. She looked like she' d stepped out of an Instagram feed.

"Oh, wow," she said, her bright eyes scanning the rows of records. "This place is amazing. I' m looking for some classic jazz. Coltrane, maybe some Miles Davis."

Before I could answer, the bell chimed again. Carlo Valdez walked in, Brooks's longtime friend and business partner. He looked older, wearier. His eyes met mine for a fraction of a second, a flicker of old familiarity and new tension passing between us.

The young woman didn't notice. "Oh, Carlo, you're here! Brooks said he used to love this kind of music. He told me to pick out something special for tonight." She turned back to me, her smile bright and predatory. "We're having a little celebration."

She gestured around the empty café. "I'd like to book the whole place. Just for a few hours. Brooks is coming, and he loves a good surprise."

A wave of nausea rolled through me, sharp and biting. I gripped the edge of the counter, my knuckles white. The cancer inside me, a quiet, gnawing beast, seemed to stir with agitation. It was getting worse. I could feel it, a constant, dull ache that no amount of pain medication could completely erase. The doctors had confirmed it. The tumors were spreading, defiant and aggressive. Chemotherapy was a battle of attrition I was losing.

The young woman, whose name I now knew was Grace Lawrence from her chattering, was directing Carlo. "Can you help me move this table? I want to set up a little listening station right here. Brooks will love it."

Carlo hesitated, his gaze flicking to me again. He knew the history. He' d seen the screaming matches, the broken dishes, the aftermath of our personal hurricanes.

On the TV, Brooks was still talking. The camera zoomed in on his face. I saw the faint, silvery line of a scar just above his eyebrow.

I remembered putting it there. A thrown whiskey glass during a fight about something I couldn't even recall now. It was one of our last battles, a final, explosive end to a decade of war.

I touched the side of my own ribs, where a faint, puckered scar of my own lay hidden beneath my sweater. A souvenir from him, a shove against a sharp table corner that had required six stitches. We were experts at leaving our marks on each other.

A reporter on the TV asked, "Mr. Ferguson, there are rumors you're back in Seattle not just for business. Is there a personal reason? Are you rekindling an old flame?"

Brooks smiled, a flash of white teeth. "The only flame I'm interested in is a new one." He paused for dramatic effect. "I'm engaged."

Grace, still fussing with the table, let out a little squeal of delight. She looked at Carlo, her eyes shining. "Did you hear that? He's so sweet." She turned her gaze to me, a hint of curiosity in her eyes. "Did you know Brooks long? He never really talks about his past."

My eyes met Carlo' s over her head. His expression was a mixture of apology and exhaustion.

Just then, the bell on the door chimed a third time. Grace gasped and ran to the door, her face lighting up like a Christmas tree. "Brooks!"

He was standing there, holding a large black umbrella over her as she reached up to kiss him. He kissed her back, but I saw it-a fractional hesitation, a slight turn of his head before their lips met.

Our eyes locked through the rain-streaked glass. For a single, charged moment, the city, the rain, and the bubbly blonde fiancée all disappeared. It was just him and me, trapped in the amber of our shared history.

Grace tried to pull him inside, but he held her in place, his hand on her back. He deepened the kiss, his eyes still fixed on mine, a blatant act of defiance, a territorial marking. See? She is mine. You are nothing.

I broke the contact first, turning away, my hands methodically wiping down a counter that was already clean.

Carlo walked over to me, his voice a low murmur. "Dahlia... just... don't. Please. Not for his sake. For yours."

"Don't what, Carlo?" I asked, my voice flat.

"He's not the same. And she's... different," he said, struggling for the right word. "She's polished. Ambitious. She gets what she wants."

"Polished," I repeated, the word tasting strange. I remembered a different kind of girl, one with tangled hair and paint-stained fingers, screaming at him in a thunderstorm. That girl was me. And she was long gone.

The bell chimed again as Brooks and Grace finally stepped inside, bringing a gust of cold, wet air with them.

"Well, well," Brooks's voice cut through the quiet hum of the café, dripping with condescension. "What are we all whispering about? My fiancée, I hope."

His gaze landed on me, sharp and possessive, and I felt the familiar, toxic pull of his gravity. The storm was no longer on the horizon. It was here.

---

Dahlia POV:

Carlo tensed beside me, a reflex born from years of witnessing my explosive reactions. He expected a bottle to be thrown, a curse to be screamed. He expected the old Dahlia.

But the old Dahlia was busy dying.

I simply picked up the two steaming mugs of coffee I had prepared. I walked around the counter and placed one in front of Grace and the other in front of Carlo. I ignored Brooks completely.

"Oh, thank you!" Grace chirped, her eyes shining with a genuine, almost childlike adoration as she looked at Brooks. "You have to try this, honey. The owner here makes the best coffee."

She held the mug up to his lips.

He took a sip, his eyes never leaving my face. "It's bitter," he said, his voice low and laced with a double meaning only I could understand. "It leaves a bad taste in your mouth."

Grace frowned, confused. "It doesn't taste bitter to me." She didn't see the way he was looking at me, a deep, consuming gaze that felt like a physical touch. She was a child playing in a minefield, oblivious to the danger beneath her feet.

The door burst open again, admitting a loud, boisterous group of Brooks's acolytes. Young men in expensive suits, their faces flushed with alcohol and entitlement. They stopped short when they saw me, their laughter dying in their throats.

I remembered them. They were the hyenas that followed the lion, always circling, waiting for a scrap. They had seen our ugliest fights, had flinched when I' d thrown things.

They eyed me warily, then looked to Carlo as if for guidance.

I just picked up a tray of coffee mugs and moved toward their table. As I approached, they flinched, one of them even raising his arms as if to shield himself.

Pathetic. The collateral damage of my war with Brooks had always been other people.

"What's the situation?" one of them whispered to Carlo, his eyes darting toward me.

Carlo just shrugged, taking a long sip of his drink. He knew this was a storm he couldn't control.

I set the mugs down and turned to leave.

"Wait," Grace said, her voice bright and commanding. Her hand shot out and grabbed my arm. "Could you take a picture for us? For my followers. They'd love to see this reunion."

I looked down at her perfectly manicured hand on my sleeve. "No," I said, my voice flat.

I tried to pull my arm away, but Brooks stepped forward. He didn't touch me. He just took out his wallet, pulled out a thick wad of cash, and held it out. "Everything has a price, Dahlia. You taught me that. Name it."

When I didn't respond, he let the bills flutter from his fingers, a green waterfall that landed in a messy pile on the floor at my feet. "Take the damn picture," he commanded, his voice laced with that familiar, cruel arrogance.

For a long moment, I just stared at the money scattered on the worn linoleum. Then, slowly, I bent down and began to pick it up, one bill at a time.

"I'm so sorry," Grace said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "He's just... in a mood."

"Oh, I know," I said, my voice quiet as I straightened up, the crumpled bills clutched in my fist. "He's not offering me money. He's reminding me that he thinks I'm trash he can buy."

One of the hyenas snickered. "She's not wrong. For the right price, she'd probably..."

I didn't let him finish.

In one swift movement, I lunged forward. I grabbed Brooks by the tie, yanking his face down to my level. I shoved the wad of crumpled cash into his open mouth, the paper scraping against his teeth.

Before he could react, I grabbed the coffee mug from Grace's hand and poured the hot liquid down his throat, forcing him to swallow the money-laced coffee. He choked and sputtered, his eyes wide with shock and fury.

Then I turned, my hand connecting with the snickering hyena's face in a slap that echoed through the stunned silence of the café.

"The next time you open your mouth," I hissed, my face inches from his, "I'll sew it shut myself."

The café was dead silent, the only sound the relentless drumming of the rain against the windows.

Carlo sighed and took a long, slow drink from his mug, as if this was just another Tuesday.

Grace was the first to break the silence, her voice trembling with indignation. "You can't just hit people!"

I turned to her. And I slapped her too. Hard. The sound was sharp, ugly.

Brooks wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a dark stain of coffee on his pristine white shirt. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Now that," he said, his voice a purr of delight, "is the Dahlia I remember."

He looked at Grace, whose eyes were welling with tears as she clutched her red cheek. "How do you want to get her back, darling?" he asked, his tone deceptively gentle. "Tell me. I'll do anything for you."

Grace stared at me, her face a mask of shock and hatred. She nodded, a single, vicious jerk of her head.

Brooks's smile widened. He snapped his fingers. "Tear it down," he said to his men. "All of it."

The hyenas, now emboldened, grinned. Two of them went out to a truck and came back with crowbars and sledgehammers.

The destruction was swift and brutal. They smashed the remaining records, shattered the glass, kicked holes in the drywall. The sound of splintering wood and breaking glass filled the air. Rain began to pour in through a newly created hole in the ceiling.

It was over in minutes. The small café was a wreck, a pile of debris and broken dreams.

Brooks stepped through the wreckage, cornering me against a ruined wall. He cupped my face in his hand, his thumb stroking my cheek. "See, Dahlia? I can give you everything. And I can take it all away." He leaned in, his voice a hot whisper against my ear. "But God, I still want you. Come back to me."

I shoved him away, a violent coughing fit wracking my body. I stumbled through the debris, my eyes searching for my purse. For my pills. The pain was a roaring fire in my bones.

I found my purse, my fingers fumbling with the clasp. I saw the bottle of painkillers.

Brooks watched me, his expression one of cold amusement. "What's that? Vitamins?"

He strode over, snatched the bottle from my hand, and casually tossed it into a large puddle of rainwater and coffee on the floor.

"You don't need those," he said, his smile never reaching his eyes. He wrapped an arm around a sobbing Grace and steered her toward the door. "You just need me."

They left. I stood alone in the ruins of my life, the rain dripping on my head.

I knelt by the puddle, my hands shaking, and fished the bottle out of the murky water. I twisted the cap off and dry-swallowed a handful of pills, far more than the prescribed dose.

The bottle said to take one every six hours as needed. In the last week, since he' d come back, I' d gone through a three-month supply.

And it still wasn't enough. It was never enough.

---

Dahlia POV:

I remembered my mother telling me that this little shop was all she had to leave me. She'd bought it with her own inheritance, a tiny nest egg she' d protected fiercely. After she died, it became my only anchor. Now it was gone, a pile of wet, splintered wood and shattered glass. Another piece of my history erased by Brooks Ferguson.

The pain in my abdomen was a hot, twisting knot. I wanted to curl up on the floor and wait for the world to end, but the agony wouldn't let me rest. I stayed there all night, soaked to the bone, the cold rain a merciless baptism.

The city news was a cacophony of speculation. "Brooks Ferguson's Ruthless Return: Revenge on a Former Lover?" The headlines were salacious, painting me as a scorned ex and him as a vengeful tycoon. They weren't entirely wrong.

When the first rays of sunrise pierced through the broken ceiling, I finally moved. I knelt in the debris and pressed my forehead to the wet, grimy floor. It was a farewell. I was looking for my mother's memorial tablet, a small, simple wooden plaque I kept behind the counter. It was gone. Lost in the wreckage. This gesture was all I had left.

"Praying for forgiveness?"

His voice, smooth and mocking, cut through the morning quiet. Brooks stood in the doorway, a silhouette against the rising sun.

"What, did you lose an earring?" he taunted, stepping closer.

I didn't answer. I just pushed myself to my feet and started walking away, my body screaming in protest with every step.

"I asked you a question," he said, grabbing my arm.

I spun around, my remaining strength flaring into a white-hot rage. I kneed him, hard, in the stomach. He grunted, doubling over.

"I was saying goodbye to my mother," I spat, my voice raw. "You destroyed her memorial."

He straightened up, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before it was replaced by his usual cold arrogance. "Is that all? I'll buy you a new one. A bigger one. Made of gold, if you like."

I just stared at him, the sheer depth of his cruelty a chasm between us. Then I turned and walked away, leaving him in the ruins.

He followed me down the street, his footsteps echoing mine. "Running away again, Dahlia? That's all you're good at."

I didn't slow down. "Go play with your new toy, Brooks. I hear she's very 'polished'."

I knew why he was back. He couldn't stand that I had left him. He couldn't stand that I had built a life, however small and fragile, without him. He had to prove he still owned me.

My body was a traitor. I wanted to fight him, to hurt him, to burn his world down just as he had mine. But I didn't have the strength. The disease was winning.

I made it to the hospital for my follow-up appointment. Dr. Howell and her team looked at my new scans, their faces a carefully constructed mask of professional neutrality. But I saw the pity in their eyes.

"Dahlia," Dr. Howell began, her voice gentle. "How many of the new painkillers do you have left?"

"None," I said.

Her eyes widened. "That was a three-month supply. You picked it up last week."

She didn't have to say the words. I knew. The cancer was a wildfire now, burning through me, and I was dousing it with gasoline, trying to numb a pain that was becoming absolute.

"Is there family we can call?" she asked, her gaze soft. "A friend?"

"I have someone who will claim the body," I said, the words from our phone call tasting like acid on my tongue. "He promised."

Her brow furrowed. "Your emotions have been so volatile lately. This isn't like you."

No, it wasn't. The old me, the one before Brooks returned, had been calm. I had accepted my fate. But he had ripped that peace away, forcing me back into a war I was no longer equipped to fight. I glanced at my phone. A news alert flashed across the screen: "Ferguson Pledges to 'Clean Up' Seattle's Blighted Neighborhoods." He was the disease, and I was the blight he wanted to erase.

"If you stop the medication," Dr. Howell said, her voice firm, "the pain will be... unimaginable. You won't last a day."

She handed me a new prescription, her eyes pleading. "Please. Just one at a time."

I took the bottle from her, and as soon as I was out of her office, I found a quiet corner in the hospital, and swallowed a handful.

The relief was temporary, a brief ceasefire before the pain regrouped and attacked again. I huddled on a bench, shivering, trying to breathe through the agony.

That's when I heard them again. The mother and young daughter from the other day, walking past.

"Mommy, that lady is crying," the little girl whispered.

"Shh, don't stare, honey."

"But she looks so sad. Doesn't anyone care about her? If she dies, who will be sad for her?"

I looked up, and my phone buzzed in my hand. A text from Brooks.

`Are you ready to come back to me yet?`

A cold, terrible thought took root in my mind. Who will be sad for me? Maybe no one. But I knew someone who would be forced to acknowledge my existence, even in death. Someone who had promised.

He could be my pallbearer.

I stood up, my resolve hardening. I walked to a deserted stairwell, the air cold and damp. I dialed his number again.

He answered instantly, as if he'd been waiting. "Decided you miss me?"

"I've thought about it," I said, my voice steady despite the tremors running through my body.

"And?"

I took a deep breath. "Brooks," I said, the words clear and precise. "Come get my body."

---