My Fake Death Was The Punchline To His Cruel Joke Chapter 08
That night, when he returned home, Camille and their friends were still celebrating in the living room, popping champagne.
One of them laughed. “She didn’t actually die over a stupid joke, did she? That would be insane.”
Camille held out the diamond ring to Bennett.
“Wipe that look off your face. The gala is still on, and so is the engagement. If she’s dead, it just makes things simpler.”
Bennett stared at her, and a dark fire ignited in his eyes.
The next second, he upended the entire table.
Glass and champagne exploded across the floor.
He lunged forward, slapped Camille hard across the face, then grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the wall.
“Engaged to you?”
His voice was a low, terrifying growl.
“Do you really think you deserve to be my wife?”
The others rushed to pull him off her.
Camille clutched her cheek, screaming, “What the hell is wrong with you? You knew about the walnut oil! You stood there with your phone, waiting for her to make a fool of herself!”
“Yeah, drop the act,” another friend sneered. “Who planned the first thirty tests? Who left her with a fever out in the snow? And who was it that hid the damn marriage license in the first place?”
“You killed her.”
That sentence shattered him.
Bennett launched himself at the speaker, and they crashed into the liquor cabinet. The party dissolved into a brawl as the same friends who had once stood united in mocking me now turned on each other.
The circle that had once laughed together at my pain was now tearing itself apart.
A month later, the final package I had arranged before leaving arrived at Bennett’s door.
Inside was the unfiled marriage license, along with one hundred cards I had intended to give him on our anniversary.
The first ninety-six were filled with all the reasons I loved him.
The ninety-seventh card was blank. On the back was the club visitor pass that had gotten me thrown out.
The ninety-eighth was also blank. On the back was a copy of the invalid marriage license.
The ninety-ninth was blank. On the back was my ER diagnosis for anaphylaxis.
On the hundredth card, I had written a single sentence:
[This time, I choose myself.]
The last time Leo mentioned Bennett, his tone was flat, as if he were discussing a stranger.
“He turned on everyone. Got himself arrested a few days ago for breaking into city hall at night, demanding they produce proof of your marriage.”
“He’s in a facility now. Involuntary psychiatric hold.”