Chapter 6
Frederick pulled over to the curb, engine idling. He sat slumped in the driver’s seat, thoughts tangled into
knots. Pulling out his phone, he scrolled through the call log,stopping at the last incoming call, timestamped
a week ago, late at night.
Call duration: 1 minute, 42 seconds.
He tapped the record. His finger trembled against the screen.
Memory surfaced: Isabella clinging to his arm at the charity gala, champagne flutes glittering under
chandeliers. The phone rang as he clinked glasses with a business partner.
Evelyn said she was hurting.
And he had told her she was acting, told her to call 911.
Frederick slammed the phone into the steering wheel. The screen spiderwebbed with cracks. He dropped his
head, shoulders shaking uncontrollably.
Some time later,minutes or an hour, he couldn’t tell,the damaged phone buzzed again.
Isabella Vance.
He stared at the name, eyes hollow. Answered.
“Frederick, where are you? I’m worried-”
“Isabella.” His voice rasped, raw. “Answer me honestly. Was Evelyn actually sick?”
A pause on the line.
“Sick? She… she always pretended, you know that.” Her tone wavered nervously. “Frederick, why ask now?”
He squeezed his eyes shut, drawing a sharp breath.
“That day at the gym,you really saw her?”
“Yes! She was running on the treadmill, full of energy… What’s wrong with you?”
He ended the call.
Stepping out of the car, he lit a cigarette. Smoke burned deep into his lungs; he coughed until tears welled.
Another memory surfaced: three years earlier, the first time Evelyn complained her heart hurt.
He was shopping with Isabella when his phone rang relentlessly.
He’d snatched it up impatiently. Evelyn wept on the other end: “Frederick, my heart’s pounding,can you come
home?”
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He laughed coldly. “Evelyn, get a new script. Stomach ache last week, heart attack this week.brain tumor
next?”
Quiet stretched before she whispered, “Never mind. Go enjoy yourself.”
Eventually, she started saying her head hurt.
He never believed her. Not once.
Frederick crouched on the pavement, grinding the cigarette butt into asphalt.
Then he remembered the divorce-night scene, Evelyn sitting across the table, frighteningly pale, hand trembling as she signed.
The final stroke of her name had been feather-light. He’d assumed she was feigning fragility.
But when she dragged her suitcase toward the door, her steps slow and unsteady.
Frederick, you’re free now.
Goodbye.
He buried his head in his hands, curling into himself on the sidewalk. Passersby glanced, he didn’t notice.
His broken phone buzzed again. Beatrice.
He couldn’t bring himself to answer.
When the ringing stopped, a text appeared,
Cremation tomorrow 9 AM. Come or don’t. But she left a letter with the lawyer. If you have any conscience
left, go read it.
His throat tightened as if gripped by an invisible hand.
He drove straight to Hawthorne & Reed.
Mr. Harrington’s expression tightened upon seeing him. “Mr. Sterling. Ms. Sterling left instructions.” He
withdrew a brown envelope from a drawer. “Said to give you this if you came.”
Frederick took it, hands shaking too badly to tear it open cleanly. Finally, he ripped the flap.
Inside was a handwritten letter, and a bank card.
He read the letter first. The writing wobbled-scrawled in sickness.
Frederick,
Reading this means I’m gone.
The card holds 500,000,saved bit by bit over the years. That capital injection Grandmother gave your
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company when it almost collapsed? I begged her for it. She told me to repay it, so I did. Now it’s yours
Also sorry.
These three years, I did fake illness sometimes. To make you come home, keep you from Isabella. I knew
you resented me, but I couldn’t stop. Grandmother told me to manage you, and I obeyed.
That last call, though,I truly was suffering. But I don’t blame you for doubting. I lied too often.
Signed the divorce papers quickly because I knew I had little time left. Glioblastoma, stage IV.
Three months, they said.
I hid it so you wouldn’t feel guilty. You’re soft-hearted,would’ve forced yourself to care for me out of pity. I
didn’t want that.
Thank you for marrying me.
Even if you were unhappy, I wasn’t. Getting to talk to you,even fighting,made me happy.
Now you’re free. Live well.
Evelyn
The letter slipped from his fingers, floating to the floor. Emptiness yawned inside him.
Harrington spoke gently, “Ms. Sterling insisted she wanted none of the properties, cars, or accounts. Only
that you live a good life.”
Frederick bent to retrieve the paper. Blotches stained the ink-tear stains.
He folded it carefully, tucked it inside his breast pocket. Rising, his legs buckled; he steadied himself against
the desk.
“Are you alright, Mr. Sterling?”
“Fine,” he rasped, waving a dismissive hand as he turned to leave.
Each step felt like walking on blades.
Chapter 6
