Chapter 3
The moment I signed the DNR, an unexpected relief washed over me.
The steady beep of the heart monitor filled the room, a relentless countdown to the end. But for the first time, the sound didn't terrify me. It felt almost... peaceful.
But for the first time, the sound didn't terrify me. It felt almost peaceful.
Mason worked fast. He set the emergency plan in motion.
Within hours, my vitals began their "natural" decline.
Doctors rushed in, alarms blared, the whole sterile symphony of a code blue playing out exactly as scripted.
A performance for the records. For whoever might've cared to look.
Alaric never came.
Later, Mason told me his courier had waited outside Alaric's villa for three goddamn hours before finally spotting him shepherding a tipsy Vivian inside. Apparently, her "emergency" had been nothing more than a little too much wine and a dramatic meltdown.
Alaric took the envelope without a glance, tossed it onto the hall table like junk mail, and muttered, "Got it," before disappearing upstairs after her.
It was exactly what I expected.
Just past midnight, the heart monitor screamed its final flatline.
The doctor emerged, face solemn, and delivered the scripted verdict to the "grieving" party—really just Mason's men and a handful of hospital staff. "Time of death, 1:37 AM. We did everything we could."
Jocelyn Goodwin was officially dead. Cause of death: organ failure and a heart that had burned out long before the rest of her.
After that, everything went by the book and fast.
My "body" was wheeled to the morgue under the pretense of organ donation paperwork—a cover story Mason had meticulously arranged. Officially, I was awaiting tissue harvesting.
In reality, a discreet replacement handled the cremation while the real me was smuggled out through a service elevator, loaded into a waiting ambulance rigged like a mobile ICU.
Mason had cashed in every Sinclair family favor, called in every debt, to get me on an international transplant list and a private jet to a top-tier clinic overseas.
Would it work?
I'd fought as hard as I could. Now, it was out of my hands.
As the car left behind the city I'd called home for nearly thirty years, I took one last look out the window at the pitch-black night sky.
Goodbye, Alaric.
Goodbye, Jocelyn.
From now on, our paths would never cross again.
All that remained was the quiet hope that my "death" would haunt him longer than I ever had alive.
*****
Twelve hours after my "death," the news finally trickled to Alaric in the most mundane way possible.
His assistant Chris stumbled across it while handling some routine hospital paperwork.
Chris was completely blindsided. He asked again and again just to be sure, then hurriedly called Alaric in a panic.
Mason's surveillance team gave me the play-by-play later. The scene: Alaric enjoying a picture-perfect breakfast with Vivian.
Vivian had made him sunny-side-up eggs herself, and the morning light was just right, creating a warm, cozy atmosphere.
Alaric had his coffee cup halfway to his lips when Chris stammered out the news. His hand froze mid-air. "What did you say? Jocelyn... is dead?"
Not grief. Not shock. Just annoyance at having his morning interrupted.
Chris said, "Yes, Mr. Goodwin. The hospital confirmed it. They said it was organ failure, and the resuscitation failed..."
Alaric paused for a short while and set down his cup. He said with deliberate calm, "Got it. Handle the arrangements. Keep the funeral simple."
Vivian, sitting next to him, immediately covered her mouth, her eyes filling with tears. Her voice trembled as she choked out, "Alaric, how could this happen? Jocelyn? Oh, she was so young..."
She leaned against his shoulder, trembling as if she were utterly heartbroken.
Alaric patted her back, his tone still calm, with just the faintest trace of comfort. "Everybody dies. Don't dwell on it. Maybe this was a relief for her."
A relief.
Mason spat out the word when he told me, his voice filled with suppressed anger.
But lying in that overseas hospital bed, I just felt... nothing. The irony almost made me laugh.
Of course this was how he'd take it.
Cool, practical Alaric was always so reasonable, even when it was about my death.
To him, I'd never been more than a placeholder wife. My passing was just a relief for him and his beloved.
That afternoon, Mason's lawyer delivered my signed divorce papers along with my asset waivers and funeral instructions.
Alaric skimmed them with the same attention he'd give a takeout menu. When he saw I'd claimed nothing but my pre-marital assets, something flickered in his eye, but it then vanished.
"Got it," he said and signed all the papers.
"Have her things sent to the Sinclair family," he told the lawyer. "Follow her wishes for the rest."
To Alaric, my "death" was just like finally wrapping up some long-overdue, trivial business.
Just like that. Neat. Efficient. No loose ends.
Perfect.
That was exactly what I wanted anyway.