My Death Taught Him Pain Novel by Rely _ Novel





My Death Taught Him Pain Chapter 01

Brittany's POV
To Kenneth Seymour, I was nothing more than a curse.
When I died curled in agony, clutching a photo of us where I'd Photoshopped myself in, he was busy kissing his first love at their wedding.
Later, he found what I'd left behind—217 empty bottles of painkillers and a bloodstained diary where his name filled every single page.
In my final voicemail, I told him, "This time... I really won't bother you anymore."
In the end, he lost his mind.
The once-arrogant CEO began wandering the streets every night, wailing.
He grabbed every passerby, asking the same question over and over, refusing to let them go.
"Have you seen my wife? She said she was in pain..."
It turned out stomach cancer wasn't the worst pain.
The worst pain was dying without him ever once paying attention to me.
＊＊＊
At 5:07 AM, the pain jolted me awake again.
It felt like my insides were being ground into mince beneath my ribs by a rusted blender.
I curled into a ball and fumbled across the nightstand.
Three empty bottles rolled onto the floor.
"Only four ... left..."
My trembling hands shook out two white pills. I swallowed them dry, the sharp edges scraping my throat.
Suddenly, the phone screen lit up.
It was a message from Kenneth.
"Don't call today. Hannie will be upset."
I stared at the name "Hannie" until my vision blurred.
The TV was on in the bedroom, and a financial reporter suddenly started shouting with excitement.
"Seymour Group CEO drops 200 million dollars on a private island for his fiancée..."
The camera panned to Kenneth's profile as he smiled for the interview.
I recognized that smile.
He had given me the same look three years ago, on the night he got drunk.
I got up and slowly made my way to the bathroom sink.
A gaunt, terrifying woman stared back from the mirror—grinning, blood seeping from her cracked lips.
Suddenly, blood splattered across the sink.
I gripped the counter, vomiting violently.
Dark fluid mixed with black blood clots poured out, looking like rotting tissue from inside me.
The painkillers finally kicked in, and the sharp agony faded into a dull throb.
As I counted my breaths, waiting for the pain to subside, I remembered the doctor's verdict from yesterday. "Ms. Fowler, the cancer cells have—"
Just then, the doorbell rang.
A courier handed me a gold-embossed invitation.
Hannah Crawford's handwriting was as delicate as she was.
"You are cordially invited to our wedding," it wrote.
My bloody fingerprint smeared the edge of the card.
Tracing the raised gold lettering, I suddenly burst out laughing.
How ironic.
I was the legal wife, yet here I was, holding an invitation to my husband's wedding with his mistress.
I threw up blood for the third time; dark red liquid bloomed in the sink.
The reflection in the mirror was emaciated and unrecognizable, with sunken eyes and sallow skin.
I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth, but more kept coming until the whole towel was soaked red.
"Ms. Fowler, the cancer cells have spread throughout your body. You have ... 72 hours at most."
The doctor's voice echoed in my mind.
I tried to smile, but I only coughed up bloody foam.
72 hours.
And Kenneth's wedding was today.

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