Months after the wedding, I stood at Harrison's deathbed. People who knew me well might have suspected I had something to do with it, but I didn't. I know I'm a degenerate, but I'm not that twisted.
The doctors called it aggressive pancreatic cancer—swift, brutal, and utterly incurable by conventional means.
I could have saved him if I wanted too.
Instead, I stood at the foot of his bed in the master suite, watching him waste away, and said nothing.
The room smelled of antiseptic and dying flowers. Harrison's third wife sat by his left hand, her belly now seven months round with my child, her tears genuine enough as she clutched his fingers.
Bianca stood behind her, pressing a handkerchief to her eyes.
Astrid, had collapsed into a chair by the window, her sobs dramatic and loud. All three of them grieving the man they'd betrayed with me.
Honestly, it's really scary how women can act like this.
"Come closer," Harrison whispered, his voice like paper crumpling.
