Faking My Death to Destroy My Fiancé - Chapter 15: Chapter 15
You are reading Faking My Death to Destroy My Fiancé, Chapter 15: Chapter 15. Read more chapters of Faking My Death to Destroy My Fiancé.
Matthew, once the epitome of power—unshakable, regal, untouchable—had been reduced to a hollow shell. His bloodshot eyes, wild with anguish, zeroed in on the garbage can like it held the last hope of salvation. Without a second thought, he thrust both hands into the reeking mess, dignity be damned. The man who'd once carried himself like royalty now knelt in the filth, frantically digging through trash with the desperation of a starving man hunting for scraps.
Then—mercifully—he found it.
Buried beneath coffee grounds and rotting food lay their wedding photo—the final relic of the love he'd destroyed. But the image was split clean down the middle, the two figures severed by an uncrossable divide. The jagged fracture seemed to sneer at him, a visual echo of wounds that would never heal.
Matthew stared blankly at the shattered photo. His chest caved as if mirroring the break, guilt and regret crushing him with unbearable weight. Morning light stretched his shadow long across the floor, the buzzing flies completing the portrait of a man who'd become one with the darkness.
A monarch butterfly suddenly fluttered past, alighting briefly on his soiled shoulder before vanishing. Just like Cassandra—here one breathtaking moment, gone the next.
From that day forward, Matthew unraveled completely. He walked away from the Lawrence Group's multi-million dollar deal without blinking, abandoning the empire he'd built over decades. Instead, he surfaced at the police station, returning hollow-eyed with only an urn clasped to his chest. His murmurs to the ashes sounded like a lullaby for the dead:
"Cassey, don't be scared. Matthew's here."
"Cassey, let's go home. I'm taking you home now."
"Everyone who hurt you will pay... starting with me."
For seventy-two hours, he barricaded himself in his room—untouchable to Julia, to Mrs. Lawrence, to anyone. A man drowning in grief, finally facing the wreckage he'd created.
Then on the fourth day, he reappeared. His eyes held an eerie calm, giving no hint of the hurricane beneath. He planned Cassandra's funeral with robotic precision, resumed work like nothing had changed. When he returned to the office with Julia in tow, it almost seemed like life was returning to normal.
Julia preened in the car, dressed to kill, savoring her apparent victory. "Thought Cassandra was so special," she smirked to herself. "But corpses don't stand a chance against the living."
The temperature in the car plummeted. She felt Matthew's gaze before she saw it—those bloodshot eyes burning with something dark and dangerous. Backlit by the sun, she couldn't make out his expression, but the murderous energy rolling off him made her want to vanish on the spot.
Then—mercifully—he found it.
Buried beneath coffee grounds and rotting food lay their wedding photo—the final relic of the love he'd destroyed. But the image was split clean down the middle, the two figures severed by an uncrossable divide. The jagged fracture seemed to sneer at him, a visual echo of wounds that would never heal.
Matthew stared blankly at the shattered photo. His chest caved as if mirroring the break, guilt and regret crushing him with unbearable weight. Morning light stretched his shadow long across the floor, the buzzing flies completing the portrait of a man who'd become one with the darkness.
A monarch butterfly suddenly fluttered past, alighting briefly on his soiled shoulder before vanishing. Just like Cassandra—here one breathtaking moment, gone the next.
From that day forward, Matthew unraveled completely. He walked away from the Lawrence Group's multi-million dollar deal without blinking, abandoning the empire he'd built over decades. Instead, he surfaced at the police station, returning hollow-eyed with only an urn clasped to his chest. His murmurs to the ashes sounded like a lullaby for the dead:
"Cassey, don't be scared. Matthew's here."
"Cassey, let's go home. I'm taking you home now."
"Everyone who hurt you will pay... starting with me."
For seventy-two hours, he barricaded himself in his room—untouchable to Julia, to Mrs. Lawrence, to anyone. A man drowning in grief, finally facing the wreckage he'd created.
Then on the fourth day, he reappeared. His eyes held an eerie calm, giving no hint of the hurricane beneath. He planned Cassandra's funeral with robotic precision, resumed work like nothing had changed. When he returned to the office with Julia in tow, it almost seemed like life was returning to normal.
Julia preened in the car, dressed to kill, savoring her apparent victory. "Thought Cassandra was so special," she smirked to herself. "But corpses don't stand a chance against the living."
The temperature in the car plummeted. She felt Matthew's gaze before she saw it—those bloodshot eyes burning with something dark and dangerous. Backlit by the sun, she couldn't make out his expression, but the murderous energy rolling off him made her want to vanish on the spot.
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