The Only Cure for a Dying Juliet
Ongoing · Fuzzy Melissa
On the day I was diagnosed with terminal cancer, my boyfriend traded our six years for a two-million-dollar check. He said he had to marry the woman who saved his life.
The irony? I was the one who held his hand in the rubble.
In the chemo ward, I met the disgraced heir to a fortune, Finn. "Two dying people," he smirked. "What's left to lose?"
I wiped blood from my lips. "Everything they took from us."
So at his engagement party, I arrived on Finn's arm. Under the spotlight, I sweetly unraveled his fiancée's lie, watching my ex's face turn whiter than my hospital sheets.
The tabloids call us "Terminal Romeo and Vengeful Juliet."
They think it's a tragic love story.
They're wrong.
This is a pact.
And we won't rest until we drag everyone who betrayed us straight to hell.
The irony? I was the one who held his hand in the rubble.
In the chemo ward, I met the disgraced heir to a fortune, Finn. "Two dying people," he smirked. "What's left to lose?"
I wiped blood from my lips. "Everything they took from us."
So at his engagement party, I arrived on Finn's arm. Under the spotlight, I sweetly unraveled his fiancée's lie, watching my ex's face turn whiter than my hospital sheets.
The tabloids call us "Terminal Romeo and Vengeful Juliet."
They think it's a tragic love story.
They're wrong.
This is a pact.
And we won't rest until we drag everyone who betrayed us straight to hell.
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