Tilda floored the gas, and the car shot toward the highway.

"He's got the nerve to be angry with you?"

"Ronan, you're just too naive, too kind for your own good."

"A man like Jack Delgado, living off a woman—do you really think he'd ever have the guts to die?"

"Don't bring him up. It's tiresome."

I drifted there between the two of them, listening to them chatter happily about what to have for dinner.

The last thread of longing in my heart finally broke.

Five years.

I gave her the five most precious years of my life, building everything from nothing beside her.

And all I got in the end was "gold-digging kept man."

Tilda.

Have you forgotten?

Back when you started out, you were so broke you couldn't even afford to rent a single studio.

It was me—the kept man you talk about.

I sorted freight at the docks for three months until the bones in my hands went out of shape, and I paid your rent.

It's fine.

You won't have to be bothered anymore.

Jack Delgado is dead. There's no one left wedged between the two of you, spoiling the view.

They drove straight home.

When my mother-in-law saw Tilda risen from the dead, she didn't look the least bit surprised.

Her face was flushed and healthy, her clothes neat, nothing like the woman from the day before.

She only asked, offhand,

"Where's Jack? He didn't come back with you?"

Ronan hooked his arm through hers, wheedling.

"It's all my fault, coming up with that crazy idea. Now Jack's too embarrassed to come home."

She caught Ronan's hand and patted it fondly.

"How is any of this your fault? You were only doing it for Tilda's sake."

"It's that penniless country boy Jack who couldn't behave himself!"

I drifted behind them, watching them lean into each other like a real family.

What was left to figure out?

This grief over a dead wife, the grief that had cost me my life—

from start to finish it had all been Tilda's carefully staged play.

Everyone was an audience. I was the only clown on the stage.

My soul followed them through the front door.

The table was already laid with a full spread of dishes my mother-in-law had prepared.

Tilda ruffled Ronan's hair and said to him, smiling,

"See how much my mom dotes on you."

"Everything on this table is your favorite."

"She knows you can't take anything spicy, that you won't touch cilantro—today she even hand-picked every side dish."

I hovered by the table, looking at the meal she had put such care into.

And I gave a helpless little laugh.

Five years married to Tilda, and neither she nor her mother ever remembered a single thing I liked.

Say a dish was good, and I'd never see it on the table again.

Say I didn't eat scallions, and every meal came with scallions.

A few times I couldn't help complaining to Tilda.

She only scolded me, impatient.

"My mom's getting old, her memory's bad. Can't you show a little understanding?"

"Forget my mom—even I can't keep track of all your annoying little quirks."

But she remembered that Ronan couldn't eat spicy food, remembered that Ronan wouldn't touch cilantro.

The one thing she couldn't remember was that I didn't eat scallions.

Five years of hardship shared meant less than Ronan's three months in Harbor City.

While Tilda was peeling shrimp for Ronan, my body was slowly going cold in a hotel suite ten kilometers away.

"Sir? Are you all right? Do you need help?"

The attendant lifted me up, and one look was enough to scare the soul out of him.

A face white as paper, both eyes still open, unwilling to close.

Dried blood clinging to the corner of my mouth.

"Ah! He's dead! There's a dead man!"

The attendant scrambled out of the room and called the hotel manager at once.

Ten minutes later, a patrol car and an ambulance arrived together.

The doctor didn't even attempt resuscitation. He gave his verdict to the officers straightaway.

"He's been dead over half an hour. There's no point trying to revive him."

"From the symptoms, he swallowed a lethal dose of chloride."

The police found my phone under the couch and scrolled through the contacts until they reached the number saved under "Wife."

When the call came through, Ronan had Tilda pinned to the bed in our bedroom.

Beneath them was the blue-gray bedding I'd picked out myself.

Our wedding photo still hung on the wall.

Seeing the unknown number flashing on the screen, Ronan snatched it up and hit accept.

"Am I speaking with Jack Delgado's family?"

"This is the Union Avenue Police Station."

He hung up before the voice on the other end could finish.

Tilda turned her head to glance at it, but Ronan simply added the number to the block list and tossed the phone onto the bed.

"Jack's still trying to give himself a way to save face."

"Paid somebody off somewhere to pretend they're from the police and call you."

Tilda let out a cold laugh.

"He's the one who sank this low, and he still has the nerve to make me come get him?"

"All these years married, and the one thing he actually learned was how to run little scams."

Ronan suddenly wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face against her, his voice thick with false feeling.

"Tilda, honestly, I envy Jack."

"He's lucky. Good family growing up, got into a good college, has a wife as good as you."

"Me, I've got nothing."

"Tilda, if you can't bear to let him go, then go bring him home."

Her hand rose, then dropped, and finally settled on Ronan's shoulder.

"You stay here tonight. The moment he crawls back, I'll divorce him."

Ronan looked overwhelmed by the favor, his eyes shining as he gazed at her.

"But what about Jack?"

"Jack and I are the closest of brothers…"

Tilda gave another cold laugh, pushing down the odd irritation stirring in her chest.

"If he likes climbing into other people's beds so much, he can just never come back."

"Doesn't he love money?"

"Give him a hundred grand. That squares us."

Five years of her youth.

More than eighteen hundred days and nights.

She'd bought it all out for a hundred thousand.

I was already dead.

And still, in that instant, my heart stopped for a second.

I dragged my mouth into a bitter smile.

Congratulations.

No divorce needed. Just widowed.

She saved the hundred grand to buy out the marriage, and even the ten dollars for two divorce certificates.

A flash of secret glee crossed Ronan's eyes.

His hands roamed over her, restless, until she caught them and pinned them still.

"It's late. You get some sleep first."

"I still have company business to handle."

Ronan held her tight from behind, his voice soft as water.

"But this room is full of Jack's things."

"It feels a little strange, staying here."

Her steps paused.

After a moment, she said it offhandedly.

"Anything you don't like the look of, just throw it out."

"From now on, you're the man of this house."

Ronan's eyes lit up, and he pointed at the row of cabinets by the bed.

"Can I throw these out too?"

Eagerly, he hauled out the box I'd hidden at the very back.

"Tilda, these look like things left over from when you two were dating."

I drifted over and looked.

Inside were nothing but worthless little things.

An instant ramen wrapper, a faded, warped mechanical watch, and a thick stack of stubs from an old cross-country train.

All keepsakes from back when Tilda and I were dating.

At our lowest, the two of us shared a single pack of instant ramen.

She only drank the broth and left all the noodles for me.

To save money, every business trip I took the cheapest cross-country train, standing eight hours at a stretch.

The money he saved bought me my first watch.

I wore that watch for years. Even when the color faded and the band warped, I couldn't bring myself to throw it out.

After we married, every time something wounded me, I'd take that watch out and put it on.

I'd tell myself the good in the past was real, that whatever friction we had now, if I just endured it, it would pass.

Tilda barely glanced at the box. Her face didn't move.

"Throw it all out."

"He's always loved using this junk to guilt me. Reminding me how much he suffered for me."

"Let's see what he has to say after this."

Then she picked up the box and, without a moment's hesitation, hurled it out the window.

I heard the dull thud below.

And strangely, in that instant, I went calm.

To me, those memories of hardship shared had been a shield, enough to smooth over countless cracks in our marriage.

To her, they were nothing but emotional blackmail. A curse chaining her down.

The love I'd treasured like something rare had already rotted through from the inside.

After Tilda went to the spare room, Ronan found the suicide note under my pillow.

He read that I'd already taken the poison, that I meant to die together with the creditor who'd driven Tilda to ruin.

He froze for a second.

He walked to the door a few times. In the end he folded that note carefully, over and over, and tucked it into his own pocket.

Ronan sat on the bed for two full hours.

Finally he took out his phone, used AI to fake a photo of me with my arm around a Black man, and sent it to Tilda.

"Jack says he's gone on vacation with his new girlfriend. He wants us to wish him well."

"Since that's how it is, why don't we stop waiting for him?"

The moment Tilda saw it, she smashed her fist through the mirror.

"Jack Delgado, you've got some nerve!"

"You really thought I'd sit here pining over a piece of trash like you!"

"I'll show you right now. I do just fine without you!"

She'd worked herself into a fury, and on the spot she announced in the family group chat that she'd be getting engaged to Ronan tomorrow.

I drifted in the air, looking at the shadows bruising under her eyes, and felt only how pitiful it all was.

Even an enemy, getting a call from the police, would cooperate with the investigation.

But my wife, the woman I'd shared a bed with, couldn't even be bothered to confirm whether I was dead.

Early the next morning, relatives came pouring in to congratulate her until the villa was packed.

Diana couldn't stop smiling. She dragged Ronan around by the hand, introducing him to everyone.

"This is Ronan, my new son-in-law."

"He's got a lucky face, too. Much better than that dark, dirt-poor Jack Delgado."

In the middle of all the congratulations, the front door suddenly slammed open.

The creditor who'd once helped Tilda stage the whole thing came stumbling in.

She looked around, then threw herself straight into Tilda's arms.

"Tilda... something's happened! Your husband poisoned himself last night!"

"The officers pulled me in this morning to cooperate with the investigation!"

The creditor looked terrified, like she'd seen a ghost, clutching Tilda and unable to get the words out straight.

Tilda's face went ashen. She shoved her away.

"Jack's making trouble, and now you're playing along with him?"

"A kept man like him, kill himself? Don't make me laugh."

"Go tell Jack."

"If he actually knows he was wrong, he can crawl back here right now, instead of pulling these shameful little stunts!"

Then she picked up her glass.

Just as she was about to raise a toast, a squad of officers pushed through the crowd toward her.

They flashed their badges, then pulled out a fresh autopsy report and threw it in Tilda's face.

"Tilda Gilbert."

"Your husband, Jack Delgado, died last night at eleven from poisoning, in Suite 306 of the Grand Joyance Hotel."

"The reason for the suicide has not yet been determined."

"We need you to cooperate with our investigation immediately."