I Died a Bride, I Woke Up a Vengeance - Chapter 9: Chapter 9
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Getting to the airport required taking a local car—I'd made special arrangements for Angie to have her own private ride straight there.
"Dominick, Angie's condition won't wait. You need to take her home first."
"I'll handle the hospital bills and cancel our accommodations before heading back," I added.
Dominick gave a hurried nod, barely looking at me.
Right on schedule at 4:30 p.m., the typhoon made landfall.
If my calculations were correct, their car would break down halfway, missing their flight entirely. Outside, the storm raged—wind howling, rain slashing sideways, tree branches snapping like twigs and hurtling through the air. I pulled the curtains shut and stretched out comfortably on the hotel's plush bed for a nap.
Later, I casually returned one of the many missed calls. The voice on the other end delivered the news: my husband had been pinned under a car during the typhoon and now required emergency leg amputation.
Dominick really has a talent for clinging to life, I mused.
After a leisurely local breakfast, I strolled to the hospital. There lay Dominick, unconscious, his head swathed in bandages. Lifting the blanket revealed the horror below—his lower half crushed beyond recognition, legs reduced to bloody pulp. Beside him, Angie had been declared vegetative by the doctors. I could've pulled the plug right then.
But seeing them like this—one crippled, the other brain-dead—inspired a better idea.
"Doctor, I'll sign the consent forms, but anesthesia isn't in the budget. Proceed without it."
I waited outside the OR as Dominick's agonized screams crescendoed in waves. He'd likely pass out from the pain, only to wake and shriek again. When they wheeled him out, everything below his waist was gone.
Upon regaining consciousness, his first slurred words were about Angie. I gestured to the bed beside him. "She's a vegetable now."
"Why? Why did this happen?!" He pounded the mattress in rage, then toppled off—balance being a new challenge for a man with no lower body.
I watched coolly. "That's fate for you. No one escapes a typhoon."
"It was you!" he spat. "You tore Angie's oxygen hose and left her to drown!"
Bystanders gaped at his outburst. I played the yacht's surveillance footage—clear as day, Angie tampering with the hose herself. My hands never touched it.
"You... you knew?" Dominick rasped.
Grabbing his arm, I leaned in. "Every detail. And you should be grateful for my mercy. I let you both live."
Back home, Zoya delivered the financial investigation: Angie owed nearly a million in high-interest loans, now ballooned to five million with penalties.
"All for luxury makeup and designer clothes," Zoya noted. "Her family's income couldn't cover it, so she borrowed more to pay old debts. Dominick's entire salary went toward her mess."
I'd been their perfect mark in my past life—wiping their debts clean, making them rich, then vanishing without a trace at the bottom of the ocean.
Scrolling through Angie's phone photos revealed pixelated but damning evidence: her and Dominick entangled in ways no siblings should be. With these, I persuaded my father to approve the divorce.
We shipped Dominick back to his family's crumbling apartment complex in a taxi, his luggage dumped in the trunk like trash. Angie remained motionless in bed—doomed to a lifetime of spoon-feeding, diaper changes, and sponge baths.
"Dominick," I said sweetly, "now you can devote yourself entirely to Angie's care. Isn't that perfect?" I tossed the debt collectors' threatening letters onto his mattress. "Though you'll need to solve this little problem yourself. I won't be saving you this time."
Suddenly, violent pounding shook the door, accompanied by crude threats. Dominick trembled, then scrambled beneath the bed, leaving a trail of urine in his wake.
"Dominick, Angie's condition won't wait. You need to take her home first."
"I'll handle the hospital bills and cancel our accommodations before heading back," I added.
Dominick gave a hurried nod, barely looking at me.
Right on schedule at 4:30 p.m., the typhoon made landfall.
If my calculations were correct, their car would break down halfway, missing their flight entirely. Outside, the storm raged—wind howling, rain slashing sideways, tree branches snapping like twigs and hurtling through the air. I pulled the curtains shut and stretched out comfortably on the hotel's plush bed for a nap.
Later, I casually returned one of the many missed calls. The voice on the other end delivered the news: my husband had been pinned under a car during the typhoon and now required emergency leg amputation.
Dominick really has a talent for clinging to life, I mused.
After a leisurely local breakfast, I strolled to the hospital. There lay Dominick, unconscious, his head swathed in bandages. Lifting the blanket revealed the horror below—his lower half crushed beyond recognition, legs reduced to bloody pulp. Beside him, Angie had been declared vegetative by the doctors. I could've pulled the plug right then.
But seeing them like this—one crippled, the other brain-dead—inspired a better idea.
"Doctor, I'll sign the consent forms, but anesthesia isn't in the budget. Proceed without it."
I waited outside the OR as Dominick's agonized screams crescendoed in waves. He'd likely pass out from the pain, only to wake and shriek again. When they wheeled him out, everything below his waist was gone.
Upon regaining consciousness, his first slurred words were about Angie. I gestured to the bed beside him. "She's a vegetable now."
"Why? Why did this happen?!" He pounded the mattress in rage, then toppled off—balance being a new challenge for a man with no lower body.
I watched coolly. "That's fate for you. No one escapes a typhoon."
"It was you!" he spat. "You tore Angie's oxygen hose and left her to drown!"
Bystanders gaped at his outburst. I played the yacht's surveillance footage—clear as day, Angie tampering with the hose herself. My hands never touched it.
"You... you knew?" Dominick rasped.
Grabbing his arm, I leaned in. "Every detail. And you should be grateful for my mercy. I let you both live."
Back home, Zoya delivered the financial investigation: Angie owed nearly a million in high-interest loans, now ballooned to five million with penalties.
"All for luxury makeup and designer clothes," Zoya noted. "Her family's income couldn't cover it, so she borrowed more to pay old debts. Dominick's entire salary went toward her mess."
I'd been their perfect mark in my past life—wiping their debts clean, making them rich, then vanishing without a trace at the bottom of the ocean.
Scrolling through Angie's phone photos revealed pixelated but damning evidence: her and Dominick entangled in ways no siblings should be. With these, I persuaded my father to approve the divorce.
We shipped Dominick back to his family's crumbling apartment complex in a taxi, his luggage dumped in the trunk like trash. Angie remained motionless in bed—doomed to a lifetime of spoon-feeding, diaper changes, and sponge baths.
"Dominick," I said sweetly, "now you can devote yourself entirely to Angie's care. Isn't that perfect?" I tossed the debt collectors' threatening letters onto his mattress. "Though you'll need to solve this little problem yourself. I won't be saving you this time."
Suddenly, violent pounding shook the door, accompanied by crude threats. Dominick trembled, then scrambled beneath the bed, leaving a trail of urine in his wake.
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