Dying For His Fake Prison

When the doctor handed me my late-stage gastric cancer diagnosis, my fiancé was sobbing on the phone, begging me to let him go. "Astrid, stop scraping together money for me," Henry wept, his voice ragged through the receiver. "It’s just ten years in prison. I deserve it. Save yourself." My fingers tightened around the crumpled envelope containing thirty thousand dollars—the exact amount of the surgery deposit I had just withdrawn from the billing counter. I smiled, swallowing the metallic tang rising in my throat. "Don’t be scared, Henry," I whispered, keeping my tone impossibly light. "I’m not letting you go to prison. I've got this." The moment the line went dead, I opened my banking app and transferred every single cent into his court restitution escrow account. The oncologist had been blunt: without immediate surgical intervention and aggressive chemo, I had a month. Four weeks at best. Yet all I could think about was waiting for Henry to walk free. I needed to see him stand in the sunlight again, clean and unburdened, even if I only had enough breath left to watch him from the sidelines. Until tonight. I was working a graveyard shift as a cocktail waitress at a high-end lounge downtown, trying to scrounge together tips for his next legal appeal, when a sudden, violent spasm tore through my gut. I collapsed in the corridor just outside the VIP private rooms, blood spilling over my lips and soaking into the plush runner. Through the heavy oak door left slightly ajar, I heard a burst of familiar laughter. Henry’s laughter. "Man, Henry, you really took this one to the extreme!" a slick voice chuckled inside. "Fake corporate bankruptcy, a staged white-collar wire fraud indictment, bogus defense attorneys, even a forged federal restitution account! Astrid literally sold her entire design studio just to keep you from doing time. Isn't that enough proof that she loves you?" Henry’s response was cool, amused, utterly detached. "My parents always suspected she was after the family trust," he said, the ice clinking against his glass. "If I didn’t push her to the edge, how would I ever know for sure?" A woman scoffed—his childhood friend, Bridget. "And what happens when she finds out the truth? What if she walks?" Henry spoke with the absolute certainty of a man who owned the world. "She was willing to wait out a ten-year federal sentence for me. You think she’d ever walk away? Tomorrow, I drop the act and bring her home. She’s finally earned the right to be Mrs. Henry Blackwood." Bridget gave a coquettish laugh, swatting his arm playfully. Henry chuckled, flagging down the server inside to order three bottles of rare vintage Champagne just to humor her. Out in the dim hallway, I lay curled on the floor, the blood hot and unstoppable as it welled up from my throat. Every dollar I had bled for, every sleepless night, every ounce of my rotting body spent to 'save' him... none of it had been real. The price of a single bottle of wine he casually ordered for Bridget’s entertainment would have bought my surgery. It would have bought my life. My trembling fingers reached into my apron, pulling out my cracked phone. I dialed his personal number. Inside the room, a custom ringtone chimed. Bridget smirked. "Aren't you going to pick that up?" Henry swiped the screen, declining the call with an easy grin. "Tomorrow. I'll smooth it over tomorrow. I can't ruin the surprise ahead of time." The line went dead. Staring at the sliver of golden light spilling beneath that closed door, my chest stilled. My breath slipped away, fragile as ash. He thought tomorrow would bring a triumphant, cinematic proposal. He didn't know that tonight was his very last chance to save my life. … I hovered by the door, an icy numbness settling over me. Whatever lingering trace of naive hope I had nurtured finally shattered into dust. Six months ago, Henry had held my hands in that dingy, freezing apartment, his eyes red and brimming with tears. "Babe, if the jury comes back guilty, promise me you’ll find a good man. Marry him. Don’t waste your youth waiting on a convict." Back then, I had sobbed, tearing to pieces the fully funded master’s fellowship offer from the Royal College of Art in London. I had thrown myself into his arms and sworn, "Henry, don't be afraid. I will never let you go behind bars." So that was it. While I was pledging my life, he was mentally checking off a box on a scorecard. "Stage one: Passed." Instinct told me to run, to flee this sickening place, but before I could make it down the hall, a dagger of pain twisted in my lower abdomen. The blood surged, violent and suffocating. I fell heavily onto the carpeted corridor, my hand shaking uncontrollably as I fished out my phone and hit his contact. Inside the suite, the chime broke through the muffled music. Bridget’s voice dripped with theatrical amusement: "Well, speak of the devil. Your tragic heroine is calling. Going to answer?" Henry let out a low chuckle, pressing "decline". "Nope. According to the script, I’m a high-profile felon facing immediate remand tomorrow. My phone was supposed to be surrendered to my lawyer hours ago. She’s too literal-minded. If I pick up now, the whole grand reveal tomorrow is blown." "Beep. Beep. Beep." The busy tone droned in my ear, flat and unfeeling. Golden light leaked beneath the threshold, while I lay in the dark, choking on dark, clotted blood. The agony in my stomach felt like an open flame consuming me from within. Cold sweat plastered my hair to my forehead, and the hallway began to dissolve into gray static. I bit down on my tongue, refusing to let a single whimper escape. It hurt so terribly. It hurt so much that, in those final seconds, I didn't even care about the deception. If he had simply opened that door, seen the pool of dark crimson, rushed me to an emergency room, and handed the desk his black card to excise the rot inside me... I wouldn't have cared about forgiving him. I just wanted to live. Yet when my eyes opened again, I was looking down from above. I was suspended in the air, weightless and hollow. On the floor below, the shell of my body lay curled tightly into a corner, my fingernails still deeply embedded in the fibers of the carpet. The suite door swung open. Henry stepped out, immaculate in a bespoke Tom Ford suit, laughing as Bridget looped her arm casually through his. They walked together toward the private VIP elevator. "So tomorrow you 'get cleared of all charges' and bring her straight to your father?" Bridget asked, a trace of petulance coloring her tone. "Are you really going to introduce her to your parents?" Henry’s lips curved upward. "She survived the fire, Bridget. She earned her seat at the table. Tomorrow morning, I introduce her to my family as the future Mrs. Blackwood." As they reached the polished brass doors, Bridget paused, tapping her chin as if struck by an idle thought. "By the way... I think I saw Astrid hanging around the service entrance earlier." Henry blinked, a slight frown creasing his brow. "If she saw something, she saw something. She might throw a little fit, but I’ll explain everything over breakfast tomorrow." A bitter, silent laugh slipped from my floating spirit. There would be no explaining. I was dead. And you cannot bargain with a corpse. Tethered by an unseen, cruel gravity, I was dragged behind him, drifting past the city lights until the town car pulled up the sweeping drive of the Blackwood estate. An enormous sprawling manor. Soaring ceilings, crystal chandeliers casting prismed light over imported wool rugs, the silent hum of old-money security. Looking down at the quiet opulence, the sheer absurdity of it choked me. For the past half-year, all to save money for his imaginary legal defense, we had lived in a squalid, six-hundred-dollar-a-month attic flat in the crumbling industrial outskirts of the city. A place where sunlight never reached. When the pipes froze mid-winter, turning the room into a sub-zero meat locker, I had refused to turn on the radiator because I was terrified of the utility bill. I had piled every single heavy blanket on top of Henry while I shivered through the night, vomiting bile from stomach spasms. He had held me tight back then, tears pooling in his eyes: "Astrid, you’re suffering so much because of me. The second I clear these debts, I swear to God I’m buying you the biggest house in the city." And I had believed him. Foolishly, utterly. He didn't lack a mansion. He just needed to measure how much degradation I could endure before he deemed my love authentic. I watched Bridget follow him upstairs, naturally slipping into a guest suite on the second floor. She lived here. Under the same roof. I drifted into her bedroom behind her, and my gaze immediately landed on the trash can beside her vanity. Buried beneath discarded makeup wipes and crumpled takeout receipts lay a pale green jade bangle, snapped cleanly in two. My phantom chest seized with an excruciating phantom ache. My mother's dying heirloom. The only thing she had left me. Before my mother took her last breath in hospice care, she had slipped that bangle over my wrist, her frail, paper-thin hand gripping Henry’s with desperate strength: "Henry... she’s all I have in this world. Promise me, no matter how hard life gets, you will protect her..." And Henry had dropped to his knees by that sterile bed, looking my dying mother in the eye: "Mrs. Selwyn, I swear on my life. I will never let Astrid suffer a single day of hardship." Yet six months ago, when Henry told me he needed another thirty thousand dollars to convince the prosecutor to recommend a reduced sentence, I had slid that heirloom off my wrist without a second thought. "Take it to a high-end pawn shop, Henry," I had urged him, pressing the cold stone into his palm. "If it keeps you free, I don't care about things. I just need you." He had cried, stuffing it into his pocket, swearing he would buy it back the moment he got back on his feet. It had never seen the inside of a pawn shop. He had handed it straight to Bridget. And Bridget, deciding the quality wasn't up to her standards after wearing it for two days, had cracked it against a marble counter and tossed it into the trash. Downstairs, Henry walked into the living room, drying his damp hair with a towel. Bridget curled up on the sectional, swirling a glass of Pinot Noir. "Honestly, Henry, you should have tested Astrid one more round. To normal people, a couple hundred grand is a lot, but once someone has that much sunk cost, they can't afford to walk away. When I told you to hire those guys to pose as aggressive loan sharks at her studio, she sold it off immediately, didn't she? That’s human psychology." I turned my spectral gaze toward Henry, the betrayal slicing deeper than any physical pain. The day those men had pounded on my studio glass, threatening violence, I had clutched the lease transfer agreement, begging them for just three more days. Henry had stood beside me, his eyes bloodshot, trembling. I had thought he was breaking under the guilt of ruining my life's work. It was a production. Directed by him, written by her. "Enough," Henry said, his tone curt as he set his drink down. "Tomorrow we announce the engagement. Don't bring that up again." He unlocked his phone. The screen illuminated the thread of our text messages. The last message, sent by me yesterday morning: "Henry, I scraped together the final two thousand for the legal retainer. Wait for me." His thumb twitched, and he dialed my number. Through the speaker, the mechanical operator answered: "The cellular customer you are trying to reach is currently unavailable..." Henry scowled, murmuring under his breath, "She definitely saw something. She's sulking." He quickly typed out a text: "Astrid, don't be childish. Tomorrow I’ll explain everything." "See? The humble martyr is playing hard to get," Bridget remarked lazily from the sofa, adjusting her silk slip. "She probably saw us together outside the lounge and got jealous. Now she's ghosting you, waiting for you to beg. Henry, you can't spoil women like her. Especially someone from her background who just realized you're an heir. If you bow down now, she'll walk all over you the moment she steps into this house." Henry’s jaw clenched. The brief flicker of unease in his eyes hardened back into cold detachment. He let out a dry, self-deprecating scoff and flipped the phone face down onto the coffee table. "You're right," he muttered, sinking back into the cushions, his arrogance restored. "She’s usually obedient, but she gets stubborn when her pride is hurt. She’ll show up tomorrow on her own." ... The following morning at ten, the ballroom of the Grand Plaza Hotel was a glittering sea of old money and media cameras. The towering LED screens displayed a sleek corporate announcement: Henry Blackwood formally stepping up as the Executive Chief Officer of the Blackwood Conglomerate. Henry wore an ink-black tailored tuxedo, towering, aristocratic, the picture of composed nobility. Directly beside him, a velvet-draped chair sat vacant. The seat reserved for his fiancée. Guests mingled, whispering behind crystal flutes of Champagne. "Did you hear? The Blackwood heir spent the last six months slumming it with some girl from the lower east side, and today he's actually parading her in front of the board?" "A street kid from foster care, apparently. Didn't even finish her arts degree." "As if a family like the Blackwoods would let a nobody through the front gates. He’s probably just using her as a temporary shield against the arranged marriage with the Ashby family." Every snide remark, every quiet laugh drifted across the stage. Henry heard every word. He didn't correct them. He didn't offer a single word of defense. Floating behind his shoulder, I felt nothing but a hollow, bitter clarity. This was his idea of elevating me. In his mind, enduring the public humiliation and classist contempt was simply the final crucible. If I had the endurance to weather the insults, only then would I be worthy of the crumbs of his affection. The clock ticked forward. Eleven-thirty. The official keynote began, and the velvet chair remained glaringly empty. Henry glanced down at his Patek Philippe, his jaw tightening into a severe line. He summoned his executive assistant with a sharp wave of his hand. "Still no word from Astrid?" The assistant dabbed nervously at his temple with a handkerchief. "Mr. Blackwood, Miss Selwyn's phone is completely switched off. And... there is another issue I wasn't sure whether to bring up." "Speak," Henry commanded, his voice dropping an octave. "The luxury packaging designs for our European fall rollout—Miss Selwyn was the contractor assigned to the final deliverables today. The client called twenty minutes ago, furious. The design lead is completely unreachable, and the entire production line has been halted..." Henry’s brow knitted sharply. "She was the designer?" "Yes, sir. Over the past six months, Miss Selwyn took on external design contracts through our third-tier creative subsidiary. Per your earlier instructions to keep tabs on her..." The assistant looked down, his voice dropping to a cautious whisper. "Her project supervisor mentioned that she had severe stomach pains for months. A few times, they found her coughing up blood in the restroom stall. They begged her to take medical leave, but she refused. She kept saying she was behind on money... that she needed every dollar to keep her fiancé out of prison." The assistant swallowed hard. "She worked sixteen-hour shifts, seven days a week, logging off at four in the morning. She has never missed a deadline in her life." I stared at Henry’s frozen face. So even the anonymous commercial illustration firm where I had nearly worked myself to the bone belonged to the Blackwood family. Henry’s hand shook violently. The red wine in his glass sloshed over the rim, staining the white linen tablecloth. He had genuinely believed I was doing casual freelance gigs, subsisting on the scraps left over from selling my studio. "Henry, don't let the assistant's dramatic stories rattle you," Bridget said, gliding over in a champagne-colored gown, holding out her phone. "Look at this. A security frame from the alley behind the lounge last night." On the small screen, a blurry figure—my back turned to the lens—could be seen leaning against the brick wall, moving toward the street. "See? She was totally fine when she walked out," Bridget scoffed, rolling her eyes. "She found out you’re worth billions, and she’s staging a protest. She skipped the press conference on purpose to humiliate your family, trying to leverage a bigger prenuptial settlement out of you." Henry stared at the grain of the surveillance image. The sudden panic that had flared in his chest receded, replaced once again by cold, defensive certainty. "I’m finding Astrid myself," Henry said flatly. He turned and strode out of the grand ballroom, ignoring the calling press and his father's furious glare. Sliding into the back of his car, his expression dark as a thundercloud, he dialed my number again and again. When it went straight to voicemail, he flooded my inbox with texts: "Astrid, that's enough." "The test is over. If you come to the hotel right now, I’ll overlook all of this." "The title of Mrs. Blackwood is yours. But don't test my patience." No delivery status. No read receipts. Thirty minutes later, the car screeched to a halt at the edge of the damp, decaying alleyway in the old industrial district. Henry shoved the door open, his polished leather shoes splashing through murky puddles as he took the rickety wooden stairs two at a time. Glaring at the silent phone in his hand, he pulled out his key, violently turning the deadbolt. "Astrid! Stop playing games!" He threw the door wide open. His pupils contracted into pinpricks.