On my dea//thbed from a terminal illness, my husband brought his mistress into our bedroom to measure the windows for her new curtains. I closed my eyes, but the next morning, as they stood by my open coffin gloating, my lawyer read my final will: I had donated the house, his car, and his bank accounts to an animal shelter, leaving them both homeless in the rain.

My breathing had grown shallow, the automated alarms beeping in a sluggish, irregular rhythm. Brenda, the night nurse, sat quietly in the corner, holding my hand and whispering words of comfort. She knew the end was hours away.

Downstairs, however, there was no quiet dignity.

Muffled sounds of laughter, clinking champagne flutes, and thumping bass echoed up through the floorboards. Julian was hosting a party. Not a wake, not a gathering of mourning friends, but a premature victory celebration. Serena and a group of their wealthy, vapid friends had tracked mud across my imported hardwood floors, treating my dying moments as the opening night of their new social club.

Around 1:00 AM, the heavy oak door swung open, and Julian stumbled into my bedroom.

He reeked of expensive scotch and cheap floral perfume. His tie was loosened, his hair disheveled, and his eyes glazed over with a toxic mix of alcohol and premature triumph. He walked unsteadily over to my bed, looking down at me not with sadness, but with a predatory impatience.

"Still hanging on, huh, Elizabeth?" Julian sneered, leaning over my face so I could smell the alcohol on his breath. "Honestly, it’s getting pathetic. Everyone downstairs is having a blast. Serena is already picking out where we’re putting the grand piano in the living room."

Brenda stood up immediately, her face flushing with anger. "Mr. Vance, your wife is in critical condition. Have some respect and get out of this room immediately."

"Shut up, nurse," Julian spat, waving a dismissive hand. "She can't even hear me. Right, Elizabeth? You're just taking up space. Do us all a favor and just let go. The lawyers are already lined up on Monday morning to transfer the deeds. This house is mine. Everything is mine."

He leaned in closer, whispering viciously into my ear. "I never loved you. I married your bank account, and as soon as your heart stops, I’m wiping your memory off the face of the earth."

I didn't blink. I didn't flinch. I stared straight ahead into his drunken, arrogant eyes, channeling every ounce of freezing fury left in my collapsing body.

Enjoy your illusion, Julian, I thought, a bitter, silent laugh echoing in my mind. Enjoy every last second of it.

Sensing the toxic shift in the room, Brenda physically stepped between Julian and my bed, her voice trembling with professional outrage. "Get out! Or I call security and the police right now!"

Julian laughed loudly, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "Fine, fine! Keep your miserable vigil. The witch will be cold by sunrise anyway." He turned on his heel and staggered back out into the hallway, slamming the door behind him.

The room fell back into a heavy, suffocating silence, broken only by the rain battering the glass and the steady, dying beep of the monitor.

As the clock ticked past 3:00 AM, my breathing hitched. A sharp, searing pain tore through my chest, and the heart monitor began to emit a rapid, frantic stutter. Brenda rushed to my side, her eyes wide with panic as she reached for the emergency call button.

"Doctor! Code blue! I need assistance in room 402 immediately!" she screamed into the intercom.

I looked toward the window one last time, watching the rain streak down the glass like falling tears. The design was complete. The final load-bearing wall had been kicked out.