Your Mistress Texted My Dead Body Chapter 2

By the next day, the change began.

Faint, purplish bruises—the marks of the end—began to bloom across my pale skin. The heat in the house was turned up high, accelerating the inevitable. My soul, bound by some invisible tether to Daniel, was forced to follow him.

I sat in the back of his car as he drove, his jaw set in a hard, angry line. Tiffany sat in the passenger seat, a white bandage wrapped around her head, surreptitiously playing with my phone. She glanced at Daniel’s profile, her thumb dancing across the screen as she typed out a status update for my Facebook page. She tagged him, hit send, and then tucked the phone back into her bag with a satisfied smirk.

She looked at him, her eyes wide and innocent. "Daniel... she seems really angry this time. Maybe we should check on her?"

Daniel scoffed, pulling his own phone out at a red light. When he saw the notification—the update from "Claire"—his face darkened.

[If you leave, I’ll die in this house, and you’ll have to live with the guilt for the rest of your life!]

Thud!

Daniel slammed his fist against the steering wheel, the horn blaring and startling a pedestrian.

"She’s a lunatic!" he hissed, the pulse in his temple throbbing.

He had spent the night cooling off, feeling a twinge of guilt. He knew I wasn't well. He’d even thought about stopping at the pharmacy on the way home to pick up my prescription. But that post—that calculated, public cry for attention—snapped the final string of his patience.

"If she wants to die so badly, then she can do it without me," he growled.

He wrenched the steering wheel, pulling a sharp U-turn. The route home was abandoned; he drove toward Tiffany’s apartment instead.

"Daniel, are you sure?" Tiffany asked timidly, though her eyes danced with triumph. "I can handle being alone. Maybe you should go back."

"No," Daniel snapped. "She’s pulled this stunt a thousand times. The more you indulge her, the worse she gets. She needs to learn that her threats don't work on me anymore."

At Tiffany’s place, she played the role of the perfect caregiver. She tied on an apron and began fussing in the kitchen. Suddenly, she let out a small "Ow!"

Daniel, who had been brooding on the sofa, rushed into the kitchen. Tiffany had "accidentally" splashed hot soup on her hand.

"Careful, honey," Daniel murmured, his voice softening as he took her hand and ran it under cold water. He looked at her with such genuine concern it made my chest ache.

I remembered when I’d sliced my finger open in our kitchen a year ago. I’d asked him for a bandage, and he hadn't even looked up from his laptop. "It’s just a scratch, Claire. Deal with it yourself. I’m busy."

It wasn't that he didn't know how to care for someone. He just didn't want to care for me.

His phone rang. It was Dr. Benjamin, my specialist.

Daniel saw the name and let out a cynical laugh before answering. "What is it, Benjamin?"

The voice on the other end was frantic. "Daniel? Where is Claire? I’ve been calling her for hours! Her lab results came back—it’s a crisis. Her lungs are failing. She needs to be hospitalized immediately. Put her on the phone!"

Daniel interrupted him, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Is that the new plan, Doctor? Claire got you to call me with a fake medical emergency? You guys really put a lot of effort into the script this time."

"What are you talking about?" Benjamin stammered. "Daniel, I’m not joking! Her pulmonary fibrosis has reached—"

"Enough!" Daniel barked. "Tell Claire that if she wants to fake her own death, she’d better make it convincing, because I’m the one who’s going to have to sign the papers. I’m not falling for this 'team-up' with her doctor. Don't call me again."

He hung up and blocked the number.

I floated beside him, screaming into the void, trying to explain, trying to tell him that the air was gone, that I was gone. But my voice was nothing but a draft in the room.

To spite me, Daniel leaned in as Tiffany took a selfie of them. In the photo, Tiffany held a glass of wine, smiling sweetly. Daniel sat across from her, and though his expression was cold, the background was a warm, candlelit dinner.

Tiffany posted it instantly. [Thank you for being here. Best holiday ever. Here’s to many more.]

She adjusted the privacy settings so that I was the only person who could see it.

Late that night, fireworks exploded outside the window, painting the sky in brilliant colors. Daniel stood by the glass, watching the fading light. He absentmindedly rubbed his thumb over his phone and, on a whim, sent me a text.

[Have you had enough yet? If you’re done being a brat, go heat up those dumplings. Don't starve yourself to death in my house. It’s bad luck.]

The message was sent. No reply came. No "typing..." bubbles appeared.

Daniel stared at the screen for a minute, then tossed the phone onto the bed in a huff. He thought I was playing a game of chicken. He thought we were in a cold war.

He had no idea that my body was currently rotting on the chair he’d bought me for our third anniversary.