The Billionaire's Terminal Mistake

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My husband watches his mistress rip up the lemon tree planted over our daughters ashes, and he doesn't even blink.

To the world, I am Mrs. Christian Vance. To him, I am a ghost haunting the hallways of his mansion. He thinks my silence is a tantrum. He thinks my bony frame is a desperate hunger strike to win back his attention. He tells the staff to let me starve, unaware that the tumor inside my brain is already doing the job for him.

While Kinsley fills my home with her cheap laughter and heated pool parties, erasing the last traces of the woman he once loved, I am quietly fading. He is waiting for me to break, to scream, to fight for him. He doesn't realize that I have no fight left. I am just waiting to die.

Chapter 1

I found out Christian was bringing Kinsley home the same way the rest of the world did. Through a push notification.

Viral Sensation Kinsley Spotted in Christian's Passenger Seat Heading to His Mansion!

Trouble in Paradise? Has the Media Mogul Finally Divorced His Wife?

We weren't divorced. We were just in a cold war. Bringing her here felt like a calculated strike. A punishment.

After our last blowout fight, I had mailed him the divorce papers. A bluff. A desperate cry for attention. I just wanted him to fight for me. But that was before the hospital. Before the diagnosis.

Now, walking back into our home, the divorce didn't feel like a bluff anymore. It felt like a necessity.

I pushed open the heavy oak door. The foyer was littered with shoes that weren't mine. Strappy sandals. Designer sneakers. And right in the center, a pair of blood-red stilettos.

"Is that Hazel?"

A woman stood in my living room. She was holding my favorite ceramic mug. Her face was bare, fresh-scrubbed. And she was wearing my silk robe. She set the mug downmy mugon the marble console and walked toward me, hand extended.

"Hi, Hazel. I'm Kinsley."

Kinsley. The spark that had ignited our entire marriage into flames. A D-list influencer turned overnight sensation the moment she signed with Christian's agency two months ago.

Last week, my feed had been flooded with photos of her kissing Christian on the cheek at the Gala. She had walked the red carpet on his arm. He, the dark, brooding king of entertainment. She, the glittering new princess. They looked perfect. They looked like destiny.

The tabloids ate it up. They wrote the obituary for our marriage before the body was even cold.

That week, the headaches started. Splitting, blinding pain that felt like an ice pick behind my eyes. I had screamed at him, packed a bag, and fled to my family's old estate.

Christian was ruthless. He didn't call. He didn't come. Seven days of radio silence.

On the eighth day, I was pruning the roses in the garden when the world tilted. The blackness swallowed me whole. Mr. Cole found me face-down in the dirt and rushed me to the ER.

That's when I found out.

Something was growing inside my brain. Something aggressive. Something inoperable.

I've always been a pessimist. It's in my DNA.

I met Christian in college. He was the sunradiant, blinding, always surrounded by a swarm of girls. I was the shadow. Quiet. Moody. Always lugging a sketchbook around campus, haunting the edges of the frame. But I had an eye for beauty. I could find the light in the darkest corners.

That day, I was sketching the sunset from the roof of the abandoned science building. A secret spot. I finished the last stroke of charcoal and stretched, my spine cracking.

A hand reached over my shoulder and snatched the sketchbook.

The scent hit me first. Fresh lemons and expensive tobacco. He had an unlit cigarette clamped between his teeth. He studied my drawing for a long moment, then looked at me. His eyes crinkled at the corners. His smile was dangerous. A little arrogant, a little boyish.

"Beautiful."

He wasn't looking at the drawing. He was looking at me.

Years later, the day we moved into this villa the day we got married. I hadn't even set my bags down before he had me pinned against the front door. His mouth devoured mine, stealing the oxygen from my lungs until my knees buckled and I dissolved into him.

Chapter 2

I pushed him away, clinging to the last shred of my sanity, cheeks burning. "We still have to eat the ravioli."

He trailed behind me like a lovesick puppy, padding barefoot across the floor. His eyes never left me. Not for a second. "Do we have to eat them?"

I was a disaster in the kitchen. Boiling water, sticky dough, chaos. I ignored him for thirty minutes, focused on not burning the house down.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, pouting. "Why can't Dorothy just make them?"

I scooped up a ravioli, blew on it gently, and held it to his lips. "My grandma said ravioli keeps the family safe. Sealed tight. Nothing can break us."

Christian avoided carbs. But when he heard that something flickered in his eyes. A soft, luminous spark. He opened his mouth and ate it in one bite.

"Is it good?" I asked, eyes wide with hope.

His chewing slowed. His brow furrowed. "It's raw."

"What?" Panic surged. I reached for his jaw, trying to pry his mouth open. "Spit it out, you idiot! Spit it out!"

He just laughed. A low, rumbling sound. His arm hooked around my waist, crushing me against his chest. I looked up, and he descended. His lips claimed mine again. "I lied."

Kinsley's hand was still hovering in front of me. I gripped it. "Hello."

Suddenly, she buckled. Her knees gave way, and she collapsed to the floor with a theatrical gasp. "Ouch!"

It was a performance so bad it was almost impressive. I stepped over her. Just in time to see Christian descending the stairs.

He was wearing a matching silk robe. He saw me, and his expression didn't even flicker. No surprise. No guilt. His gaze slid over my face like I was part of the furniture and landed on Kinsley. "What happened?"

I didn't have the energy for games. "I pushed her." I pointed at the shoes. The robe. "She's wearing my clothes. My shoes."

Christian walked past me. He reached down and helped Kinsley up. "We'll just buy you new ones."

Kinsley's voice dropped to a whisper, trembling with unshed tears. Her eyes were already rimmed with red. "Hazel, please don't misunderstand. Reporters ambushed us on the way back to the office yesterday. We had to hide out here. Don't be mad. I'll pay for the clothes."

Christian walked into the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, leaned back against the island, and looked at me with that smirk. That arrogant, maddening smirk. "What? Jealous?"

I didn't answer. I turned my back on them and walked up the stairs.

Dinner time. Dorothy came to call me, but the nausea was already rolling in my stomach. I shook my head.

Then Christian walked in. He sat on the low cabinet opposite my bed, hands shoved deep in his pockets, a smirk playing on his lips. "So angry you're on a hunger strike? Kinsley is going to be staying here for a while. You planning to starve yourself for a month?"

I curled deeper into the duvet, the headache pounding against my skull like a sledgehammer. "I'm not angry. She can stay as long as she wants. I don't care."

Footsteps approached the bed. A hand reached out to touch my forehead. I flinched away instinctively.

Silence stretched in the room. Heavy. Suffocating.

Christian stood up. He walked out. The door slammed shut behind him.

Chapter 3

Christian was a shark. A predator in a tailored suit.

Six years ago, he bought a failing entertainment agency and turned it into an empire. His methods were brutal. Inhuman. I used to call him a ruthless capitalist monster.

He would just laugh. "Hazel, it's a dog-eat-dog world. If you want to stand at the top, you have to be the biggest dog."

He was right. He won. In six years, he conquered half the entertainment industry. He became the King of Media in this city. But his crown came with a cost.

Cracks spiderwebbed across our marriage. At first, I tried to be understanding. The supportive wife. But I realized something. The industry is a sewer. And Christian had been swimming in it for too long. How could he not be tainted?

I woke up at midnight, stomach cramping with hunger. I went downstairs and made instant ramen.

Dorothy found me hunched over the bowl in the dark. "Hazel," she sighed, bustling over to the stove. "Stop fighting with him. If you keep this up, this family is going to fall apart."

She pulled a pot from the fridge. "Here. Eat something real." She heated up her homemade chicken soup. Carrots, celery, thick noodles. It smelled like home. She took the instant ramen away. "That's garbage. Look at you, child. You've lost so much weight in just a few days. Your chin is sharp enough to cut glass."

I kept my head down, shoveling noodles into my mouth. The steam stung my eyes. A tear splashed into the broth.

Dorothy didn't see it. She stroked my hair gently. "No matter what happens, you have to eat."

Kinsley made herself at home. Maybe because I stayed in my room. Maybe because Christian let her do whatever she wanted.

She started treating the villa like her personal playground. She lounged on the sofa in micro-shorts, laughing loudly at the TV, scattering chip crumbs everywhere. My OCD flared. Seeing my custom-imported Persian rug smeared with grease stains made my skin crawl.

I stood over her. "Clean this up."

Kinsley's face crumbled instantly. "I'm so sorry, Hazel! I just feel so comfortable here. I love you and Christian so much"

"This is my house," I said, voice cold. "If you have any shame at all, you'll go back to yours."

Kinsley froze. Then the waterworks started. Tears rolled down her cheeks on cue. "I can't go back! The reporters are camping outside my apartment. If I go back now, they'll drive me crazy! I I have depression"

I looked at her, deadpan. "Oh? And that's my problem because?"

Kinsley's eyes widened in shock. "Do you have no heart?" She muttered under her breath, loud enough for me to hear, "No wonder Christian doesn't love you anymore"

I raised my hand.

Snap.

My palm collided with her cheek. The sound was sharp. Satisfying.

And then I saw him. Christian was standing in the entryway. Watching us.

Chapter 4

He was too far away. I couldn't read his face. What was he thinking? How can she be so vicious? Or maybe Interesting. She's finally jealous.

It didn't matter. None of it mattered anymore. Why waste my dying brain cells on this? If Christian loved Kinsley, yes, it would hurt. But I was dying. He was young. Alive. It wasn't strange that he would move on.

But Did he have to be in such a rush?

I hated Kinsley. She was shallow. Ignorant. And she wouldn't stop provoking me.

I sat on the sofa, staring blankly at the TV. In the kitchen, Christian was holding an ice pack to her face. Her soft, whimpering sobs grated on my nerves like broken glass. He murmured something low and soothing. The crying stopped.

Her cheek was swollen. My handprint was blooming red on her skin. Delicate flower. No wonder she landed all those luxury skincare campaigns. She was beautiful. I'll give her that. If you ignored the personality rot, her face was designed to be loved.

Maybe I was staring too long. A shadow fell over me. Blocking my view.

"We need to talk," Christian said.

I felt surprisingly strong today. Strong enough to slap Kinsley ten more times.

We walked out to the garden. The lemon tree was fruiting. Small, green spheres hung from the branches. The breeze carried the sharp, clean scent of citrus.

Christian stood six feet away. A chasm. He pulled a cigarette from his pack and clamped it between his lips. He patted his pockets for a lighter. Empty. I tossed him mine.

He caught it. "Why are you so volatile lately?"

I shrugged. Didn't answer.

He lit the cigarette. Smoke curled around his face, blurring his features. He felt miles away.

"Don't touch Kinsley," he said. His voice was low. Heavy.

I turned to look at him. His eyes were calm. Deadly calm. "If you're unhappy, take it out on anyone else in the company. Anyone. Just not her."

Memory lane. College.

I was late finishing a project in the studio. The dorms were locked. I had to walk back to my off-campus apartment. The route was desolate. Industrial wasteland.

A car started trailing me. Slow. Predatory. Panic spiked in my chest. I started to run. I turned a corner and ran straight into a wall of drunk, middle-aged men.

"Hey, sweetheart. Where you going? Need a ride? It's dark out here. Why don't you come back to our place?"

I froze. Terror paralyzed my limbs. One of the men reached out. His hand hovered over my shoulder.

Flash.

High beams blinded us. A car screeched to a halt, tires smoking.

"Don't touch her."

The voice was young. Mocking. Dangerous. "Unless you want a free trip to the ICU."

I squinted against the glare. It took me a moment to recognize him.

Chapter 5

It was Christian. He stepped out of the car. Two friends piled out of the back seat. Three giants. All over six-two. A wall of muscle and testosterone.

One look at them, and the fear evaporated.

For years, Christian was my shield. My fortress. He gave me every ounce of safety I ever felt. And then he took it all away.

I looked down and laughed. A dry, humorless sound. I thought dying would numb me to this. To the details. But my eyes burned.

"When will you sign the papers?" I asked. Casual. Like asking about the weather.

Christian was silent for a beat. "When the media frenzy dies down. When Kinsley goes back to her place. I'll sign."

My heart seized. A physical blow. He wasn't going to fight for me. I had deluded myself. I thought he loved me too much to let go. I thought he saw this as just another tantrum. But this time was different. He was letting go. He had found his replacement.

"I'll move out then"

"No." The refusal was instant. Sharp. "You're not going anywhere. The press is writing fiction right now. If the media finds you, if you say the wrong thing it could tank Kinsley's endorsements."

His phone buzzed. He walked away. Leaving me in the garden.

I stared at the lemon tree. A single green fruit, seemingly perfect, detached from a branch and thudded into the grass. I walked over and picked it up. One side was rotted through. A gaping, black hole. Rotten to the core.

We planted this tree together. That year I was pregnant. Christian had kissed me until my lips were swollen. We stayed up all night, giddy with the future. At dawn, I dragged him into the garden, armed with a shovel.

"Why a tree?" He laughed, wiping a smudge of dirt from my cheek.

"Because," I beamed. "When the baby grows up, the tree will grow up. We can sit under it, drink lemonade, and be a family. If it's a boy, his nickname is Little Tree. If it's a girl, Little Lemon!"

Christian wrapped his arms around my waist, burying his face in my neck. "Definitely a Little Lemon."

He was right. It was a girl. But five months in I lost her. I buried her ashes under this tree. For years, it was barren. Not a single fruit. But this year it bloomed. Like an omen.

Christian said he was protecting Kinsley from the press. Kinsley said she was afraid of the reporters. Yet he paraded her around in public.

And me? I was the one under house arrest. Guards posted at the gate. A prisoner in my own home.

Chapter 6

Kinsley's agent, Vanessa, was loud. Her voice carried effortlessly up the stairs, drifting into my room. "Your engagement numbers are skyrocketing, Kinsley. The lead in Director Vance's next film is practically yours. Congrats."

"Christian treats me so well," Kinsley cooed. "We're inseparable. But do you think he's just doing this for the PR?"

Vanessa laughed. "Silly girl. If it was just PR, why keep her locked up? He wants her to disappear. That way, when the divorce drops, no one can say he moved on too fast. No 'overlap' scandal." Vanessa lowered her voice, sounding smug. "Besides, what man brings his girlfriend home unless the marriage is already dead? You saw the divorce papers in his room yourself."

Kinsley's voice brightened. "That's a relief. I was so worried I was being a homewrecker."

So that was it. He was erasing me. Preparing the timeline. Making sure his new love story was clean.

Christian wouldn't let me leave. Fine. I wouldn't leave. I was fading anyway. Every movement felt like wading through molasses. I tried to write a will. But I realized I had no one to write it to.

Me and Christian. We went from soulmates to strangers. From talking until dawn to suffocating silence. Where did we break? I didn't even know.

Crash.

Glass shattered in the nursery. My heart stopped. I ran.

Kinsley was standing in the middle of the room. At her feet lay the ruins of the music box. I had carved it myself. "Little Lemon" was etched into the base. It played a lullaby. It was for her. For my baby.

Snap.

A cable inside my brain severed. The sound was audible, sickening. A white-hot flash of agony. I stared at her. Dead-eyed.

Kinsley shrank back, flinching at the dead look in my eyes. "Hazel I didn't mean to! I I was just curious! It was so pretty, and then a spider crawled on my hand and"

I snapped.

Next thing I knew, I was straddling her. My hands were clamped around her throat. Squeezing.

Then I was flying backward. Christian ripped me off her. My ears were ringing. A high-pitched scream that drowned out the world. I couldn't hear what he was yelling.

Kinsley was gasping for air, clutching her chest, choking and gagging. Christian knelt beside her. He tilted her chin up, inspecting the red marks on her neck. His brow furrowed. Concern. Calculation.

The broken music box lay on the floor. I lay on the floor. He didn't look at either of us. My head felt like it was splitting open. I had never imagined this. Not in a million years. After all this time I never knew he could be this cold.

I dragged myself up. Stumbled out of the room. Leaving them behind.

Chapter 7