His Death Is Not My Fault

Alan did not return home that night.

When the lawyer sent the revised agreement I had requested the other day, he asked whether I wanted to sue everyone slandering me online.

"Yes, but not yet. Let's gather all the evidence and act in a single, concentrated effort."

He then asked about Sophia's baby. "The child will be born out of wedlock, yes, but the law still allows them to inherit from their parents. Do you want to take action on that?"

"No," I said.

That child might as well never have existed. How could it? Alan had been infertile for seven years.

…

Alan's counterattack came later than I expected. More than six hours after the video and its memes had gone viral, he abruptly called a press conference and summoned me to attend.

Under a barrage of flashing cameras and watchful eyes, he pulled Sophia into his arms and announced that we had been discussing divorce for the past six months.

He claimed he had wanted to keep his private life out of the public eye, but after I tried to harm Sophia following the video incident, he could no longer stay silent.

"Sophia Mason was once a working-class student sponsored by my company. She is one of the brightest people I have ever known. Through her own hard work, she became a beloved lecturer at the prestigious John Goldbook College.

"But what moves me most is not her academic success or her extraordinary talent. It is her warmth. Her optimism.

"She helped me recover something I thought I had lost—the ability to feel genuine love. That is why I cannot bear to see her suffer any longer."

Sophia lifted her head from his chest and revealed a faint scar on her face.

She fixed her gaze on me. "How could you do this to me, Selena? You know I'm pregnant with his child. You could have killed us both—no, killed them."

That was all it took. I became public enemy number one.

Alan adopted a look of grave disappointment. "You should understand how much pain that causes. Just because you are hurt does not give you the right to hurt others. I'm sorry, but enough is enough. I cannot allow this to continue."

He displayed a so-called psychological profile on the screen. Every detail served a single purpose: to brand me as mentally unstable.

Until that moment, I had not realized how ruthless he could be. Yet the chip—ironically his last safeguard against his own suppressed trauma—would fail within five minutes.

The internet erupted.

Alan became the embodiment of a chivalrous protector defending the woman he loved. Sophia was suddenly celebrated as a resilient, self-made icon.

I alone stood outside that narrative. Online, I became a canvas for increasingly inventive insults. Offline, the media turned their cameras on me.

"Mrs. Faust, are the details in this report accurate?"

"Mrs. Faust, if you have been separated for six months, why did you remain by Mr. Faust's side?"

"Did you act out of jealousy, Mrs. Faust? Was it a result of a personality disorder, or a deliberate act of malice?"

It still was not enough for Alan. He had one final card to play.

He produced a USB drive that he claimed would prove I was irredeemably, unequivocally unstable.

It reminded me of what Kier had told me. Someone had broken into his research lab. They had taken nothing of value, but they had copied the core data—the one video clip we had all worked so hard to bury.

I understood his plan, so I asked one last time, "Are you sure you want to play this here, in front of everyone?"

Alan hesitated.

Sophia seized the microphone and said, "I know you don't want your past exposed, but you're ill. You're so unwell that Alan alone cannot help you anymore. We need public input. Perhaps a professional will see this and reach out."

Her eyes gleamed with undisguised delight.

Her words erased any lingering doubt in him. "You brought this on yourself, Selena. You should not have challenged me."

Alan instructed his assistant to play the clip.

The crowd held its breath. The live comments flooded with the names of celebrity psychologists and mental health experts.

The video began. A tormented, anguished face filled the screen, shocking the audience into silence.

Alan staggered back from the podium, screaming.

The chip had failed.