Lily's Last Breath, A Marriage's End

Lily's Last Breath, A Marriage's End

Gavin

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The phone was slick with sweat as I screamed my address to the 911 operator, my three-year-old daughter, Lily, gasping for air on the living room carpet, her face a terrifying shade of blue. "She has a heart condition," I choked out. "She needs an ambulance. Now." From the bedroom, I heard my wife, Sarah, on the phone, her voice a low, intimate murmur, oblivious to Lily' s agony. She was talking to another man, David, expressing concern for his sick son, Leo. Rage scorching my veins, I confronted her. "Lily can' t breathe! Get off the damn phone!" She flinched, looking at me with annoyance. "I' m talking to David. His son is sick. It' s important." "Our daughter is dying!" I yelled, but she just rolled her eyes dismissively. "You' re overreacting, Ethan. She probably just has a cold. You always panic." My world fractured. When the ambulance finally arrived, it was too late. Dr. Evans, his eyes weary, delivered the crushing news: "We lost her." Lily was gone. Hours later, I called Sarah, trembling, trying to tell her. "Lily... she' s gone." But her words sliced me like knives. "What are you talking about? Gone where? I' m at the hospital with David; Leo' s getting his kidney transplant tomorrow." Disbelief, then a chilling horror, washed over me as she dismissed Lily' s death as another one of my "dramas," hanging up to celebrate Leo' s transplant. When her parents, John and Mary, arrived, they scrolled through Sarah' s social media: a smiling photo of her and David, celebrating Leo' s perfect match-posted after I called her. "A perfect match, right now?" John' s voice was low, dangerous. A horrible suspicion began to dawn: was this more than just indifference? Could it be something far more sinister?

Introduction

The phone was slick with sweat as I screamed my address to the 911 operator, my three-year-old daughter, Lily, gasping for air on the living room carpet, her face a terrifying shade of blue.

"She has a heart condition," I choked out. "She needs an ambulance. Now."

From the bedroom, I heard my wife, Sarah, on the phone, her voice a low, intimate murmur, oblivious to Lily' s agony. She was talking to another man, David, expressing concern for his sick son, Leo.

Rage scorching my veins, I confronted her. "Lily can' t breathe! Get off the damn phone!" She flinched, looking at me with annoyance. "I' m talking to David. His son is sick. It' s important."

"Our daughter is dying!" I yelled, but she just rolled her eyes dismissively. "You' re overreacting, Ethan. She probably just has a cold. You always panic."

My world fractured. When the ambulance finally arrived, it was too late. Dr. Evans, his eyes weary, delivered the crushing news: "We lost her." Lily was gone.

Hours later, I called Sarah, trembling, trying to tell her. "Lily... she' s gone." But her words sliced me like knives. "What are you talking about? Gone where? I' m at the hospital with David; Leo' s getting his kidney transplant tomorrow."

Disbelief, then a chilling horror, washed over me as she dismissed Lily' s death as another one of my "dramas," hanging up to celebrate Leo' s transplant. When her parents, John and Mary, arrived, they scrolled through Sarah' s social media: a smiling photo of her and David, celebrating Leo' s perfect match-posted after I called her.

"A perfect match, right now?" John' s voice was low, dangerous. A horrible suspicion began to dawn: was this more than just indifference? Could it be something far more sinister?

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I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

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