Dying Was My Best Revenge

Sophia

The pain in my abdomen had been persisting for weeks, but I'd written it off as a cocktail of stress and hangovers. Miami nightlife will do that to anyone—especially when you've spent ten years trying to keep up with the city that never sleeps.

I sat across from Miami Elite Medical Center's most renowned oncologist, hands clasped tightly on my knees to hide their trembling.

"Ms. Rivera, based on your CT scans and biopsy results..." The doctor's voice was clinical and detached, but his eyes held that look I'd learned to recognize—pity. "I regret to inform you that you have stage four pancreatic cancer, with metastasis to surrounding organs."

"What does that mean exactly?" I heard myself ask.

"Based on the extent of the tumor's spread, we estimate you have six months, at most."

Six months.

One hundred and eighty days.

I stared at the wall of credentials behind the doctor, my mind drifting to Camden—he didn't know yet.

Our ten-year anniversary was just ten days away, and he had planned some sort of "surprise." Turns out, surprises work both ways.

"We can discuss palliative care options," the doctor continued, "perhaps some experimental therapies to consider..."

I nodded mechanically, fingers smoothing non-existent wrinkles on my dress.

"I recommend beginning treatment immediately," the doctor said, handing me a stack of brochures.

"Of course," I replied, but my mind was already calculating how to spend my final moments.

Camden's text lit up as I left the clinic: [Meeting running long, Jackson contract needs handling. Don't wait up, remember to confirm party details, ten days until our big day!]

I had the Uber driver take me back to our oceanfront penthouse on Biscayne Bay. The interior was Camden's beloved minimalism—cool gray tones, perfect marriage of glass and metal, expensive furniture that never felt like home.

Something felt off the moment I walked in. Camden's Rolex watch sat on the entry console table, next to his loosened Hermès tie. This wasn't right—Camden never went to business meetings without his watch, insisting it was "a successful man's essential accessory."

I walked slowly to our walk-in closet, mechanically beginning to organize my clothes. My fingers brushed against Camden's suit jacket from yesterday, and paper rustled in the pocket.

A photograph. The kind taken with those instant cameras young people love. I pulled it out, and a chill ran down my spine.

A young woman, early twenties, with long flowing hair, smiling brightly at someone off-camera. She looked familiar in an unsettling way.

Then I understood—she looked like me. Not the me of now, but the me from ten years ago when Camden and I met. That girl from the Gulf Coast town with artistic dreams, wild natural curls, bare face, and hopeful eyes.

A sharp, searing pain suddenly tore through my abdomen, like a white-hot knife. I collapsed onto the five-figure handcrafted rug, curling into myself, waiting for the agony to pass.

Through tear-blurred vision, I saw the framed photo on our nightstand—from some charity gala last year. My face wearing the smile I'd practiced countless times to perfection, Camden's gaze fixed somewhere else, never truly on me.

'How did I never notice?'

When the pain finally subsided enough to move, I dragged myself toward Camden's study.

That sacred space where I was never welcome for long, filled with leather-bound books he'd never read and trophies acquired through "charitable donations."

I methodically searched through his drawers until I found it—a slim black phone, not the iPhone he used daily.

Password? Try my birthday. It unlocked instantly. How fucking romantic.

The screen revealed a stream of messages with "Melody":

[Can't wait to see you tonight, Sophia thinks I'm at the Jackson meeting.]

[Ten days left on our countdown! Surfing lesson tomorrow?]

I scrolled up, my fingers trembling slightly:

[Sophia's getting stale. I need fresh blood.]

[After the ten-year mark, I'll be free. You're exactly what I need—who I need.]

As I stared at the screen, a new message popped up: [Wear that sundress tonight. And don't forget our plan—ten days until freedom.]

The phone nearly slipped from my numb fingers. Ten days. Our anniversary. The "surprise" he'd been planning wasn't an engagement—it was a breakup.

I rose slowly, a strange calm settling over me. Taking out my own phone, I created a new note: [Countdown: 10 days. Camden doesn't know I'm leaving too.]

My finger hovered over a contact I hadn't reached out to in years—the person who had warned me about Camden, the one I'd stubbornly defended him to until our friendship fractured.

"Raven?" When she answered, my voice sounded foreign to my own ears. "I know it's been forever... but I need your help." I took a deep breath. "Yes, it's about Camden... No, it's different this time."

After ending the call, I stared at my reflection in Camden's towering floor-to-ceiling windows. For the first time in years, I recognized the woman looking back at me—and finally knew exactly what she needed to do.

Camden thought he was counting down to freedom. What he didn't know was that my countdown had begun too—just in a way he could never imagine.

Six months to live. Ten days to decide.