Your Regret, My Revenge

No.

I wouldn't die.

The ones who should die were them.

I turned off the monitor. The phone screen went dark. My eyes held a calm I'd never felt before.

Crying, accusing, breaking down—they were useless.

To fight monsters, you have to use their own methods.

Vincent, Cathryn, did you want me to die?

Fine. I would die for you first.

I would let you watch me, this "dying woman," walk step by step toward the grave you dug for me.

I'll wait until you let your guard down and wait until you grow overconfident right before my eyes.

Then I'll crawl out of hell myself and drag you both down with me!

The first step: I had to find the strongest backing.

I found the backup phone, my finger hovering over a number. It was my aunt, Hilary Lewis.

Years ago, I had a huge fight with her over Vincent.

She'd said, "Brenna, that man will chew you up and spit you out one day."

Her words became a prophecy.

The phone rang only once before connecting.

"Brenna?"

Her voice was as brisk as ever, but with a trace of concern she couldn't quite hide.

I swallowed the sob rising in my throat. "Auntie, I need your help."

"Speak." Her voice was firm, without hesitation.

"First. Find my bone marrow donor. Bypass Vincent and his cousin. I need to contact them directly."

There was a two-second silence on the other end.

"Vincent is trouble?" She went straight for the jugular.

"Second," I continued without answering, "find me a top-notch private investigator. Discreet. Clean hands."

"Understood." My aunt didn't press for details. "You'll have the investigator's contact within thirty minutes. I'll handle the bone marrow matter personally."

"Brenna," Hilary added before hanging up, "the Lewis family does not go down without a fight. No matter what happens, I'm here."

The call ended.

In less than ten minutes, an encrypted message arrived. I dialed the number.

"Ms. Lewis, this is Mr. Larson." The voice was steady, no nonsense.

"I need you to investigate two things," my voice was ice-cold. "First, the medicine my husband brings me daily. Its composition and source. Second, 24/7 surveillance on Vincent and Cathryn. I want all their movements, calls, and financial records."

With everything arranged, I deleted all call logs and messages, then hid the phone again.

The first piece of my game was in place.

The next morning, Vincent arrived right on time.

He seemed in unusually high spirits, a suppressed joy in his eyes.

He probably had a wonderful night with Cathryn in my marital bed.

He set the thermal lunchbox on the nightstand, helped me sit up with practiced ease, and gently placed a soft pillow behind my back.

"Brenna, how are you feeling today? Sleep well last night?"

I feigned extreme weakness, shaking my head with effort.

"Not… not so good. No strength. Dizzy."

He immediately frowned, his eyes full of feigned concern as he touched my forehead.

"Why are you so cold? Is the chemo hitting you hard again? I'll go get Brice right now."

"No…" I grabbed his sleeve, looking at him with timid eyes. "Don't bother him… I just… didn't sleep well. I'll be fine after resting."

My show of weakness worked.

Worry deepened in his eyes. He didn't insist on the doctor, just brought over the bowl of dark, bitter liquid.

"Here, drink your medicine first. It's good for you. You'll feel stronger after."

Looking at that bowl of foul-smelling dregs, I fought back nausea and nodded.

As he turned to get a spoon, I swiftly pulled a pre-prepared small, clear ziplock bag from under the pillow.

He scooped up a spoonful, blew on it, and brought it to my lips.

I obediently drank. Then, as he looked down to scoop another spoonful, I turned my head sharply and spit a small portion of the medicinal residue into my palm. In one smooth motion, I slipped it into the bag and back under the pillow.

"What's wrong?" He seemed to notice something, looking up.

"It's… nothing," I turned back instantly, forcing a weak smile. "Just… too bitter."

He didn't suspect, just coaxed me in an even gentler tone. "Be good. Good medicine is bitter. Finish this bowl, and I'll give you some candy."

He was talking to me like a toddler.

Suppressing the hatred and disgust in my heart, I drank down the bowl of dregs, sip by sip.

After I finished, he smiled, satisfied, and started chattering about funny things at the office, trying to cheer me up.

I just closed my eyes, pretending to be drowsy, keeping my breathing light and slow.

He stayed by my bed for a while, probably confirming I was asleep, then stood up and walked to the window to make a call.

He lowered his voice, but in the silent room, it was terrifyingly clear.

"Baby, don't cry. I told you the marrow is definitely ours. Just focus on taking care of yourself and the baby."

His tone was one of tenderness and affection I'd never heard before.

"I'll handle Brenna. She doesn't suspect a thing. Don't overthink it, okay? What if you get upset and it affects our son?"

"How long can she possibly last? The doctor said months. Just be patient a little longer. Once she's gone, I'll marry you right away."

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood to keep from making a sound.

After hanging up, he sat by my bed a while longer before leaving.

The moment he was gone, I took out my phone and sent a message to detective Dylan Larson.

"Sample acquired. 3 PM today, I will go to the garden for a walk. Send someone."

After doing this, I felt completely drained.

At 3 PM, as planned, I insisted on going for a walk in the hospital garden, dragging my weak body.

The nurse couldn't dissuade me.

The garden was mostly empty.

I sat on a secluded bench and hid the small ziplock bag under a loose paver.

A few minutes later, a man in janitor's uniform pushed a trash cart over, unhurried. He pretended to sweep leaves near my bench, then naturally bent down to reposition the loose paver.

We made no eye contact the entire time.

Now, everything was ready. I just needed the right moment.

I needed a trigger to make Vincent completely believe my time was almost up.

I needed to put on the most convincing performance of my life, right in front of him.

That evening, Vincent came back with porridge.

He brought a spoonful to my lips.

Just as I swallowed half of it, I suddenly clutched my chest and began coughing violently.

"Brenna?" He panicked, dropping the bowl to pat my back.

Now was the time.

I grabbed a tissue, coughing as if my lungs would tear.

When I pulled the tissue away, a shocking, vivid red stain bloomed on the white paper.

Vincent stared at the blood, frozen in place.