A Death Certificate for His Love
In the autumn rain of Seattle, I slipped and fell from a cliff. My boyfriend, Asher, chose to save his childhood sweetheart, Cassandra, first.
Just as I was succumbing to despair, his brother, Justin—the legendary musical prodigy—dived in and pulled me from the brink.
Later, he proposed with a cello piece he composed, "The Stars," its deep, resonant melody a vow to protect me for the rest of his life.
I married him. I became his one and only muse. Until a car accident, when, drifting in and out of consciousness, I heard his icy voice speaking to his brother.
"The miscarriage is a complication, but the marrow is still a match. The doctor said she’s strong—she can have the transplant as soon as she’s stable. Cassandra can’t wait any longer."
Asher asked him if he was insane.
He replied, "It's just a child. As long as she's mine, Kayla will always be mine."
In that moment, every kiss he had ever given me felt like a brand, searing his lies into my skin.
I realized my love story was just a meticulously orchestrated symphony, and I was nothing more than a tool for someone else's salvation. A cold resolve settled over me. If this was their game, I refused to be a pawn.