My Dying Heart, His Cruel Vows

My fifth wedding anniversary gift was a call from my husband's publicist. He told me to come down to the 5th Precinct because there was a "situation." With my billionaire husband, Elijah, there was always a situation.

When I got there, I saw a young influencer accusing him of kidnapping. But the real shock wasn't the accusation. It was her face-she looked exactly like me, five years younger.

Elijah arrived, but instead of being angry, he showered her with affection, calling her "Kiley" and gifting her a diamond necklace. He treated the kidnapping claim like a lover's quarrel.

When his eyes finally met mine, the warmth vanished, replaced by ice. He looked at me like I was a piece of furniture. A cop muttered to his partner, "That's Mrs. Peters. The real one. Or, well, the first one."

He hates me. He blames me for his sister's death five years ago, believing I ran away and left her to die. He doesn't know I collapsed while running for help. He doesn't know about my terminal heart condition.

So he tortures me with my living replica, slowly killing the woman he vowed to love "till death do us part." The irony is, he doesn't have to try so hard. My doctor just told me I only have a few weeks left to live.

Chapter 1

Jamie POV:

My fifth wedding anniversary gift wasn't jewelry. It was a phone call from my husband's publicist.

The sterile, official tone on the other end of the line was a stark contrast to the hollow silence of the mansion I called home. "Mrs. Peters? This is Mark from Elijah's team. We have a bit of a situation. We need you to come down to the 5th Precinct."

A situation. With Elijah, there was always a "situation."

"What happened?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. My hand instinctively went to my chest, a familiar tightness beginning to bloom there, a cruel reminder of the clock ticking inside me.

"It's... better if you see for yourself, ma'am. It's a media frenzy."

The line went dead.

I didn't waste a second. I threw on a simple coat over my dress, my hands trembling as I fumbled with the buttons. The drive downtown was a blur of traffic lights and the blare of horns, each sound grating on my frayed nerves.

The 5th Precinct was exactly the circus Mark had described. Reporters swarmed the entrance like vultures, their cameras flashing, microphones thrust forward at anyone who looked even vaguely official. I slipped in through a side entrance a security guard held open for me, my heart pounding a frantic, unhealthy rhythm against my ribs.

The main hall was chaotic. And in the center of it all, I saw her.

She was young, maybe twenty, with the kind of fresh, vibrant beauty that seemed to radiate under the harsh fluorescent lights. She was surrounded by a small crowd of officers, her face a mask of theatrical distress. But it