He thought I was sulking, but I was actually waiting to die.
Three years into our marriage, he brought different women home every night, hoping to see me break down. I didn't cry or make a fuss—I quietly moved into the study. He didn't know that I had a terminal illness and didn't have much longer to live.
He was furious, his eyes red as he asked me why I wasn't jealous.
He didn't understand that in my final days, every scene he and his mistress played out only confirmed one thing for me: he wasn't worth it.
Later, I died. He went crazy.
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