Fiancé's Betrayal: My Fatal Wedding Gift

Hazel POV:

Back in the cold, silent apartment, I slipped the wedding gift-the document bag containing my death sentence and the artifacts of his lies-deeper into my suitcase. The final piece of my plan was clicking into place.

I began pulling clothes from the closet, folding them into a separate, smaller bag. My movements were calm, methodical. A strange sense of peace washed over me. The end was near.

"What are you doing?"

Harden' s voice, sharp with suspicion, sliced through my reverie. He stood in the bedroom doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, his brow furrowed.

"Packing," I replied, not looking at him. "I' m visiting my parents' graves tomorrow. It' s their anniversary."

It was a lie, but a plausible one. He knew how important they were to me.

He watched me for a moment, his suspicion warring with his desire to believe me. "Fine," he finally grunted, turning away. "I have to pack too."

I paused, my hand hovering over a soft wool sweater. "Oh? Where are you going?"

"Business trip to Norway," he said, pulling a designer suitcase from the top of his closet. "Frank and I have to close a deal. I' ll be back in a few days. Don' t miss me too much."

His attempt at a playful tone was grotesque. I gave him a small, tight smile. "I' ll try not to."

My placid agreement seemed to unnerve him. He kept glancing at me as he packed, a frown creasing his handsome face. He expected tears, or a fight. He didn' t know what to do with this new, hollow version of me.

Once he was gone, I pulled out my phone. I didn' t need to be a detective to know the truth. A quick scroll through Krista' s Instagram feed confirmed it. There, posted just an hour ago, was a picture of the Northern Lights with the caption: My ultimate dream! Someday… #wanderlust #auroraborealis

And right below it, the first comment: Harden Diaz: Someday is coming sooner than you think.

A bitter, self-mocking laugh escaped my lips. My stomach clenched, a familiar, agonizing pain radiating through me. Of course. A business trip. His business was Krista.

I leaned against the wall, trying to breathe through the agony. I had to tell him. I had to make one last, pathetic attempt. I picked up the phone.

"Harden," I said, my voice strained. "I' m not feeling well. My stomach… it really hurts."

"Hold on a second, Hazel." His voice was distracted. Before I could say more, I heard Krista' s frantic voice in the background.

"Harden! Oh my god, hurry! It' s Muffin! I think he fell off the balcony! He' s not moving!"

Muffin. Her ridiculously pampered Pomeranian.

"I' m on my way, Krista! Don' t move him! I' ll be right there!" Harden' s voice was laced with genuine panic. He was more concerned about her dog than he was about me.

"Harden, please," I begged, my voice cracking. "I think… I think I need to go to the hospital."

"For god' s sake, Hazel, can you stop being so dramatic?" he snapped, his patience gone. "You' re not the only person in the world with problems. A stomach ache can wait. I have a real emergency here."

The line went dead. He had hung up on me.

The pain in my abdomen intensified, a white-hot poker twisting in my gut. Black spots danced in my vision. The phone slipped from my grasp, clattering to the floor. The last thing I saw before the darkness consumed me was the cheerful glow of Krista' s Instagram post, a beacon of my own personal hell.

When I woke up, the world was a blurry watercolor of white and beige. The antiseptic smell of a hospital filled my nostrils. I was in a private room, an IV line snaking into my arm.

Harden was asleep in a chair by my bed, his head lolled to one side, his face etched with a convincing portrait of worry. He looked like the devoted fiancé. The actor was back on stage.

He stirred as I moved, his eyes fluttering open. When he saw I was awake, a wave of relief washed over his features.

"Hazel," he whispered, rushing to my side. He took my hand, his touch now feeling alien and repulsive. "You scared the hell out of me. Why didn' t you tell me you were this sick?"

The sheer audacity of his question left me speechless. Did he really not remember our conversation? Or was he just that good at rewriting history?

"I did tell you," I said, my voice a hoarse whisper. "You told me I was being dramatic. You had a 'real emergency' to attend to."

A flash of guilt, or perhaps just annoyance at being caught, crossed his face. He had the decency to look away.

"I' m sorry," he mumbled. "I was… stressed. I' ve cancelled the trip to Norway. We' re going to take a trip, just the two of us. Anywhere you want. A cruise to see the Northern Lights. You' ve always wanted that, right?"

His words were a poisoned arrow. He was offering me the very trip he had planned with his mistress, a consolation prize for my near-death experience.

He leaned in and pressed his lips to the back of my hand. The touch was like a brand, searing my skin. I snatched my hand away as if I' d been burned. The pain in my heart was a physical agony, sharp and relentless.

"Why, Harden?" I asked, my voice breaking. "Is this trip for me? Or is it for her?"

Before he could answer, the door to my hospital room swung open. Krista breezed in, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips.