His "True Love" Was Fake... So Was My Corpse, Sucker! - Chapter 115: Chapter 115
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"Mr. Sullivan, careful, there's a step ahead." The assistant wiped sweat from his brow, carefully supporting Marcus as he staggered into the mansion, alcohol fumes practically radiating from his pores.
The assistant felt helpless. Since the divorce, everything had turned upside down in the Sullivan household.
This was the seventeenth time this month picking Mr. Sullivan up from bars. He'd always be dead drunk, curled up in a corner, pushing away approaching women, mumbling some name repeatedly—my name.
Opening the mansion door, a slender woman sat on the sofa, her pregnancy clearly showing beneath an expensive designer dress.
"Olivia, make me some hangover pills!" Marcus slurred at the figure.
Zoe lounged on the plush sofa, her face dark with displeasure. Seeing him in this state again only fueled her anger.
Months had passed since his divorce, her belly was showing, yet he still hadn't mentioned marrying her.
Though jewelry and gifts kept coming, they weren't enough—she wanted to be Mrs. Sullivan, with all the legal protections and social status that came with the title.
"Marcus, what's wrong with you! Why have you become like this!" Zoe finally exploded, tears streaming down her face, carefully applied mascara leaving black trails on her cheeks.
"I'm fine... you should rest early..." Marcus's mind seemed to clear momentarily. He irritably pushed away the crying woman before him, his patience for her dramatics nonexistent.
But he had no desire to comfort her anymore. The act was becoming too exhausting to maintain.
Ignoring her sobs behind him, he slammed the door shut, the sound echoing through the empty hallways.
He stumbled into my old bedroom. The staff hadn't cleaned yet—the floor was a mess of his own making.
Empty bottles scattered everywhere, ashtrays overflowing, the air thick and suffocating with stale smoke and spilled alcohol.
He collapsed on the bed, hugging the pillow to his chest like a lifeline.
In his daze, he could almost smell my faint fragrance mixed with the bedding—a comforting warmth that seemed to mock him with its absence.
Marcus suddenly found it laughable.
Though we'd lived under the same roof for three years, we'd barely interacted beyond the necessary pleasantries.
We even used separate dishes and bathrooms, living parallel lives that never truly intersected.
I'd return from outside and silently retreat to my room, closing the door to do who-knows-what. A ghost in my own home.
But initially, I seemed to have tried maintaining our relationship. I'd learned his tastes and preferences with meticulous attention to detail.
Making black coffee without milk or sugar every morning, carefully matching his suits and ties, keeping everything organized to his exacting standards.
During Christmas, I'd prepare home-cooked feasts, smiling as I wished him Merry Christmas, trying to inject some warmth into our cold arrangement.
But he'd always remained cold, even bringing other women home to humiliate me, as if testing how far he could push before I broke.
Gradually, I stopped trying and grew more silent. We could go a month without speaking beyond absolute necessities.
Marcus realized he knew nothing about me.
My interests, food preferences, dreams—all mysteries locked behind the polite mask I wore.
We'd remained strangers who never truly entered each other's hearts, ships passing in the night without ever making contact.
Separation should have brought relief, so why did his heart ache so much?
He felt hollow inside, losing interest in everything, always feeling something was missing, like a phantom limb that continued to pain him despite its absence.
He'd even called out my name during an important board meeting, shocking everyone into whispers that continued for days afterward.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw me walking away without looking back, leaving with someone else, my hand firmly clasped in Caleb's.
That decisive image became his greatest nightmare, impossible to shake no matter how much alcohol he consumed.
Marcus suffered from insomnia night after night, his fever hitting 104 degrees without breaking, his body rebelling against his mind's torment.
He'd turned to alcohol, only when drunk could he numb the pain enough to breathe, to function, to pretend he wasn't falling apart.
"Marcus, please stop this. Can we just sit and talk..." Zoe's tearful voice came through the door, interrupting his spiraling thoughts.
The sharp knocking jolted away his last traces of drunkenness.
Marcus grabbed a nearby lamp and hurled it at the door, roaring:
"Get lost! Stop bothering me!"
He buried himself under the fragrant blankets, drifting into unconsciousness, chasing the oblivion that was his only escape from regret.
The assistant felt helpless. Since the divorce, everything had turned upside down in the Sullivan household.
This was the seventeenth time this month picking Mr. Sullivan up from bars. He'd always be dead drunk, curled up in a corner, pushing away approaching women, mumbling some name repeatedly—my name.
Opening the mansion door, a slender woman sat on the sofa, her pregnancy clearly showing beneath an expensive designer dress.
"Olivia, make me some hangover pills!" Marcus slurred at the figure.
Zoe lounged on the plush sofa, her face dark with displeasure. Seeing him in this state again only fueled her anger.
Months had passed since his divorce, her belly was showing, yet he still hadn't mentioned marrying her.
Though jewelry and gifts kept coming, they weren't enough—she wanted to be Mrs. Sullivan, with all the legal protections and social status that came with the title.
"Marcus, what's wrong with you! Why have you become like this!" Zoe finally exploded, tears streaming down her face, carefully applied mascara leaving black trails on her cheeks.
"I'm fine... you should rest early..." Marcus's mind seemed to clear momentarily. He irritably pushed away the crying woman before him, his patience for her dramatics nonexistent.
But he had no desire to comfort her anymore. The act was becoming too exhausting to maintain.
Ignoring her sobs behind him, he slammed the door shut, the sound echoing through the empty hallways.
He stumbled into my old bedroom. The staff hadn't cleaned yet—the floor was a mess of his own making.
Empty bottles scattered everywhere, ashtrays overflowing, the air thick and suffocating with stale smoke and spilled alcohol.
He collapsed on the bed, hugging the pillow to his chest like a lifeline.
In his daze, he could almost smell my faint fragrance mixed with the bedding—a comforting warmth that seemed to mock him with its absence.
Marcus suddenly found it laughable.
Though we'd lived under the same roof for three years, we'd barely interacted beyond the necessary pleasantries.
We even used separate dishes and bathrooms, living parallel lives that never truly intersected.
I'd return from outside and silently retreat to my room, closing the door to do who-knows-what. A ghost in my own home.
But initially, I seemed to have tried maintaining our relationship. I'd learned his tastes and preferences with meticulous attention to detail.
Making black coffee without milk or sugar every morning, carefully matching his suits and ties, keeping everything organized to his exacting standards.
During Christmas, I'd prepare home-cooked feasts, smiling as I wished him Merry Christmas, trying to inject some warmth into our cold arrangement.
But he'd always remained cold, even bringing other women home to humiliate me, as if testing how far he could push before I broke.
Gradually, I stopped trying and grew more silent. We could go a month without speaking beyond absolute necessities.
Marcus realized he knew nothing about me.
My interests, food preferences, dreams—all mysteries locked behind the polite mask I wore.
We'd remained strangers who never truly entered each other's hearts, ships passing in the night without ever making contact.
Separation should have brought relief, so why did his heart ache so much?
He felt hollow inside, losing interest in everything, always feeling something was missing, like a phantom limb that continued to pain him despite its absence.
He'd even called out my name during an important board meeting, shocking everyone into whispers that continued for days afterward.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw me walking away without looking back, leaving with someone else, my hand firmly clasped in Caleb's.
That decisive image became his greatest nightmare, impossible to shake no matter how much alcohol he consumed.
Marcus suffered from insomnia night after night, his fever hitting 104 degrees without breaking, his body rebelling against his mind's torment.
He'd turned to alcohol, only when drunk could he numb the pain enough to breathe, to function, to pretend he wasn't falling apart.
"Marcus, please stop this. Can we just sit and talk..." Zoe's tearful voice came through the door, interrupting his spiraling thoughts.
The sharp knocking jolted away his last traces of drunkenness.
Marcus grabbed a nearby lamp and hurled it at the door, roaring:
"Get lost! Stop bothering me!"
He buried himself under the fragrant blankets, drifting into unconsciousness, chasing the oblivion that was his only escape from regret.
End of His "True Love" Was Fake... So Was My Corpse, Sucker! Chapter 115. Continue reading Chapter 116 or return to His "True Love" Was Fake... So Was My Corpse, Sucker! book page.