My Deathbed Wish: His True Love

Grace's POV:

I was jolted awake by the smell of smoke, thick and acrid in the night air. Outside my window, an orange glow danced against the darkness. I threw on a robe and ran downstairs, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

In the center of the vast back lawn, a bonfire raged. And standing before it, silhouetted against the flames, was Jack.

He was tossing things into the fire. Things that were once ours.

Our high school yearbooks, opened to the pages where we' d been voted "Cutest Couple." The box of letters we' d written to each other during his first year of college. The pressed gardenia, my favorite flower, from the corsage he' d given me for our senior prom. And, my breath caught in a sob, the hand-carved wooden swing from the old oak tree, the one he' d built for my sixteenth birthday, where he first told me he loved me.

Each memory, each piece of our shared history, was being consumed by the flames, turning to ash and smoke. It was a funeral pyre for the life we were supposed to have. I felt a pain so sharp, so physical, it was as if the fire was burning through me, charring my very soul.

He turned then, and saw me. There was no malice in his eyes, just a cool, detached resolve.

"Bianca saw these in the attic," he said, his voice stripped of all emotion. "It makes her uncomfortable. She feels like she' s living in your shadow."

My shadow. I was a ghost in my own home.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing my lips into a semblance of a smile. "I understand. You' re right. We should get rid of anything that makes her feel that way."

Before he could react, I turned and walked back into the house, my steps unnaturally steady. I went to my room, the room I had occupied since I was a child, and began to pull things from my closet. The photo albums filled with pictures of us. The oversized university sweatshirt of his that I always slept in. The small, velvet box containing the delicate diamond necklace he' d given me on our fifth anniversary.

I carried the armful of my most precious treasures back outside and, without hesitating, tossed them into the heart of the inferno. The plastic on the albums melted and curled. The fabric of the sweatshirt vanished in a whoosh of flame.

I stood there, watching our past burn, the heat scorching my face while a profound, bone-deep cold settled within me. This was what it meant to let go. It was an amputation of the soul.

In the weeks that followed, the systematic erasure of my existence continued. The sound of construction became a constant backdrop to my life. The gardenia bushes Jack' s mother and I had planted along the driveway were ripped out, replaced with rows of sterile, manicured rose bushes that Bianca admired. The cozy sunroom, where Jack and I had spent countless rainy afternoons reading, was gutted. Its plush armchairs and overflowing bookshelves were replaced with sleek, modern gym equipment for Bianca.

The final blow came when they tore down the gazebo at the edge of the lake. It was where Jack had proposed to me, on a starry summer night, promising a forever that now felt like a cruel joke. In its place, they built a large, garish yoga deck.

I was standing in the redesigned garden one afternoon when Bianca found me. She sauntered over, a smug smile playing on her lips.

"Like the changes?" she asked, gesturing around the yard.

She held up her hand, deliberately catching the sunlight on a newly acquired piece of jewelry. It was a ring, a simple silver band twisted into the shape of a star jasmine vine.

My breath caught.

"Jack made it for me," she purred, twisting her hand back and forth. "He' s going to propose. Officially. He designed it himself. Isn' t it beautiful?"

It was beautiful. It was also the exact design I had sketched in a notebook years ago, a dream of a ring for a future that would never come. He must have found the old notebook and, with no memory of its origin, recreated it for her. The irony was a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs.

I forced myself to meet her triumphant gaze. "It' s lovely, Bianca," I said, my voice sincere. "It suits you perfectly."

Her smile faltered, her victory soured by my calm acceptance. A flash of anger crossed her face.

"You' re lying," she snapped. "You hate it. You hate me. I know you do." She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I saw your old sketchbooks. He made my ring from your design. Does that bother you, Grace? Knowing he still has pieces of you floating around in his head?"

"What do you want, Bianca?" I asked, my patience wearing thin.

Her expression shifted, a strange, calculating look in her eyes. "I want you gone. I want every trace of you erased."

And then, in a move so sudden it took my breath away, she lunged forward. She didn't push me. Instead, she grabbed my wrist, using my own hand to shove herself backward. She stumbled, let out a piercing shriek, and tumbled dramatically into the ornamental pool, a shallow, filthy pond filled with stagnant water and algae.

As she fell, she twisted my body, causing me to lose my balance and fall hard onto the stone pathway. Sharp pain shot up my ankle, and I felt the sting of gravel digging into my palms.

"Bianca!"

Jack' s voice was a roar of pure panic. He came sprinting from the house, his face a mask of terror. Without a second' s hesitation, he vaulted into the filthy water, pulling a sputtering, coughing Bianca into his arms.

He carried her to the edge of the pool, his movements frantic. "Are you okay? Did she hurt you?"

Bianca burst into tears, clinging to him like a frightened child. "My ring," she sobbed, holding up her bare hand. "It' s gone! She… she was trying to take it from me, and it fell into the water. She pushed me, Jack!"

She buried her face in his chest, her shoulders shaking. "I can' t stay here anymore. She hates me. Everyone hates me. I just want to go back to my little apartment."

Jack' s head snapped up, his eyes locking onto me. The warmth and concern he' d shown Bianca vanished, replaced by a gaze so cold it felt like frostbite. "Who," he said, his voice lethally quiet, "do you think you are?"

"Jack, I didn't…" I started, scrambling to my feet, the pain in my ankle making me wince.

"Don' t lie to me," he snarled. He looked at my scraped hands, the dirt on my clothes, and then at Bianca' s tear-streaked face. His verdict was instantaneous.

He gently set Bianca down and walked towards me, his every step menacing.

"You' re jealous," he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "You can' t stand to see me happy with someone else, so you torment her. You act like a saint, but you' re a manipulative bitch."

The words hit me harder than any physical blow.

"I didn' t push her," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I wouldn' t."

"I don' t believe you," he said flatly. He gestured to the murky pool. "That ring meant everything to Bianca. You' re going to find it."

He snapped his fingers, and two of the burly estate bodyguards appeared at his side.

"Put her in," he commanded.

Before I could protest, they seized my arms. I cried out as they lifted me off the ground and, with a callous heave, threw me into the freezing, disgusting water. The shock of the cold stole my breath. I flailed, trying to get to the side, but one of the guards planted a heavy hand on my shoulder, pushing me back.

"Mr. Day' s orders, Miss Daniels," the man said, his face impassive. "You find the ring, you can get out."

And so I searched. I waded through the thick sludge at the bottom of the pool, my hands blindly groping through slime and decaying leaves. The sun set, and the garden lights flickered on, casting long, distorted shadows. The cold seeped into my bones, a deep, agonizing ache. My fingers grew numb, my movements clumsy. A familiar tremor started in my left hand, a terrifying reminder of the disease slowly claiming my body.

Hours passed. It was nearly midnight when my numb fingers finally closed around a small, hard object. The ring.

I stumbled out of the pool, shivering uncontrollably, my clothes and hair dripping with foul-smelling water. I walked on autopilot to his wing of the house and knocked on his door.

He opened it, wearing a plush robe. His hair was damp, and he looked at me with cold, impatient eyes. I held out my trembling hand, the ring sitting in my palm.

He didn't take it.

"From now on, Grace," he said, his voice a low warning, "you will stay away from Bianca. If you so much as look at her the wrong way again, I will make you regret it."

Then, he took the ring from my hand, walked to the open window, and flicked it out into the darkness of the night.

I stared at him, uncomprehending.

"Bianca decided she doesn' t like that design after all," he said coolly, turning back to me. "It reminds her of you. I' ll make her a new one."

He closed the door in my face.

I stood there, dripping and shivering in the hallway, staring at the closed door. The ring wasn' t the point. My hours of freezing torment weren' t about finding it. They were about punishing me.

He was right. I was a ghost in this house. And he was the one who was going to haunt me to my grave.