The moment I walked in on my "frigid" wife being intimate with our home’s AI butler, my world fractured. Nauseated and blinded by betrayal, I dragged the machine to the disposal plant to be incinerated. I didn’t know that Camille Sinclair would lose her mind, racing after the transport truck in a desperate pursuit that ended in a horrific, fatal crash. From that day on, I became the "clutching, jealous widower" of our social circle—the man whose envy had supposedly killed his wife. Five years passed. Five years of waking up in cold sweats, wondering if I had just been less petty about a piece of silicon, she might still be alive. Until today. I was at a private members' club in Manhattan to close a deal when I passed a VIP suite with the door ajar. Inside, I heard the playful, mocking voice of her best friend: "So, Camille, how much longer are you going to play dead? This whole 'tragic accident' ruse has to have an expiration date." Then came a voice I would know in the depths of hell—cool, poised, and laced with a hint of indulgent laughter. "Until Oliver’s heart is fully healed. If Adrian hadn’t had that psychotic break and sent the butler to the scrap heap, Oliver wouldn’t have had to fake a system short to escape. I wouldn't have had to stage my own death just to get him out from under Adrian’s thumb." Her friend clucked her tongue. "I still can’t believe you pulled it off. Having Oliver wear that custom-made synthetic skin, pretending to be a robot right under your husband’s nose for a year... the kink of it all is legendary." Fake death? Oliver Whitlock? She wasn't just alive. The "machine" she had fallen for wasn't a machine at all. It was my best friend. A passing waiter accidentally bumped into me, his tray clattering to the floor. The conversation inside the suite stopped dead. Camille turned toward the sound, her eyes locking directly onto mine. … She looked at me, and for a second, there was no panic. Instead, her body moved instinctively, stepping sideways to shield a man sitting on the sofa. He was wearing an oversized cashmere cardigan, looking pale as he looked up. It was Oliver Whitlock. My best friend. The man who had sobbed until he collapsed in my arms at Camille’s funeral five years ago. My breath hitched. I gripped the doorframe so hard my nails dug into the wood. "You're alive," I whispered, my voice trembling like a wire under tension. Camille looked at me with a faint, mocking amusement. "Well, you heard the highlights, didn't you?" I stared at her face. For five years, this face had been my ghost. I’d seen it on a headstone, in the hollows of my dreams, and in the hallucinations born of severe clinical depression. I hadn't slept a full night in three years because of her. I had withered away to nothing, a skeletal hundred-and-ten pounds, consumed by the guilt that I had murdered the woman I loved. I stepped forward, my hand swinging through the air in a blur. The slap echoed through the room. Camille’s head snapped to the side. "Are you done?" she asked coldly, her cheek blooming red. "Why?" I choked out. Tears I couldn't control spilled over, hitting the plush carpet. "Why lie to me? You gave up your entire life, your identity... you stayed dead for five years just for him?" "Because you're a goddamn lunatic, Adrian." Camille took a step toward me, her eyes flashing. "Five years ago, you knew Oliver was inside that skin. You sent him to the incinerator anyway. You tried to burn him alive!" I froze. My mind went blank for a heartbeat. "I didn't know..." I shook my head violently. "I thought it was a machine! How could I have known there was a person inside?" "Liar," Camille spat. "The foreman at the disposal plant said you specifically told them to crank the heat to the maximum. You were always jealous of Oliver. You saw through the disguise and decided to murder him under the guise of 'scrapping a droid.'" I hadn't. Five years ago, I didn't even know Oliver had returned to the States. I only knew my wife was choosing a silicone-faced butler over her husband. I was disgusted, I was heartbroken, so I got rid of it. Looking at Camille now, I realized the futility of it. She didn't believe me. To her, I was already a killer. Oliver reached out and caught Camille’s sleeve, his eyes rimmed with red. "Camille, don't blame Adrian. It was my fault. I was the one who insisted on wearing the skin just to be near you. I couldn't control my feelings. If he wanted to burn me, maybe I deserved it." Camille immediately turned to him, her movements tender, almost reverent. "Go back inside, honey. There’s a draft here, and you can’t risk a chill with your condition." Her voice was a soft caress. Five years ago, when I was coughing up blood from a stress-induced ulcer and called her in the middle of the night, she told me she was too busy and to call an Uber to the ER. That night, while I was being stabilized in a cold hospital room, she was at home watching movies with a "robot." "Why did you let me grieve?" I whispered. "You watched me cry for you, and for him, every single day. You stayed in the shadows and laughed at me!" "You both make me sick," I said, the words heavy with bile. Camille’s expression hardened into stone. "Since you're so clearly alive, I'm calling the police," I said, pulling out my phone. "Insurance fraud, faking a death certificate—that’s a felony." Camille didn't try to stop me. Instead, she sat down on the sofa, crossing her legs with agonizing composure. "Go ahead. Call them. Just be prepared to watch your father die." -------- The gala was held at the most opulent hotel in Midtown. When I pushed through the double doors, every head turned. I felt the weight of their gaze—the derision, the mockery, the sheer spectacle of my presence. Camille stood in the center of the ballroom in a perfectly tailored black gown. Oliver was draped on her arm, looking like the picture of refined grace. They looked like the perfect couple. "Camille, Adrian is here," Oliver whispered, tugging at her sleeve. Camille turned. Her eyes raked over me, lingering on the side of my waist where my suit jacket didn't quite hide the sloppy, hand-stitched repair I’d made to the fabric. A flash of irritation crossed her face. "Get over here," she signaled with a tilt of her chin. I dragged my leaden feet toward them. The giant screens in the room lit up, displaying wedding photos of Camille and Oliver. They had apparently married abroad years ago. "Thank you all for coming," Camille said into the microphone, her voice carrying that effortless authority. "I want to clear the air. The accident five years ago was real, but I survived. I spent years recovering in a private clinic overseas." "As for Mr. Mercer," she paused, using my full name like a stranger's. "The trauma of the accident caused him to suffer a severe psychotic break. He developed a delusional obsession, imagining we were still married and harrassing my current husband." A collective gasp rippled through the room. People looked at me like I was a rabid dog. "So he really is crazy." "No wonder he’s been a ghost these past few years. How pathetic." "Camille is a saint for not committing him to an asylum." I stood there, my nails drawing blood from my palms. I forced myself to stand straight. Oliver took the mic, tears glistening in his eyes. "I don't blame Adrian. He’s sick. When he tried to put me in that incinerator years ago, it was the illness talking." The murmurs grew louder, more hostile. "Attempted murder? Why isn't he in jail?" I looked at Oliver. He was a master of the craft. "If Adrian apologizes to me today, in front of everyone, I’m willing to let the past stay in the past," Oliver said, his eyes gleaming with the triumph of a predator. Camille leaned in close to me, her voice a low hiss. "Apologize. Now. Or I pull the funding for your father’s heart transplant before the next hour is up." I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath. Then I bent my body into a ninety-degree bow. "I'm sorry. I was unstable. I am sick." The crowd jeered. Oliver smiled. He picked up a glass of neat, high-proof bourbon from the table. "Since you’ve apologized, drink this. A peace offering." He held it out. I stared at the amber liquid. I have a perforated gastric ulcer. Years ago, while trying to secure an investment for Camille’s startup, I drank myself into the ICU. Camille had stayed by my bed for three days then, slapping herself in grief, swearing she would never let a drop of alcohol touch my lips again. I looked up at her now. Her lips were pressed into a thin, indifferent line. "Not going to drink?" Oliver asked, sounding wounded. "Camille, I don't think he’s actually sorry." "Drink it," Camille said coldly. "Drink it, and the wire transfer goes through." I didn't hesitate. I took the glass and drained it. The liquid felt like molten lead searing its way down my throat and into my gut. I couldn't help it. A violent, racking cough tore through me. A spray of bright red blood splattered across my white dress shirt. The crowd gasped. My legs gave out, and I hit the marble floor. Camille’s face flickered for a fraction of a second. She instinctively took a step toward me, her hand reaching out. "Adrian—" "Ah!" Oliver suddenly clutched his chest, crying out in pain. "Camille! My heart... I think I'm coughing blood too..." Camille’s hand froze in mid-air. She spun around, seeing a tiny red smudge on Oliver’s lapel. She didn't look at me again. She barked orders for someone to carry Oliver out and sprinted after them. "Call an ambulance! Move!" Her voice was filled with a terror she had never once felt for me. I lay on the cold marble, watching her back disappear into the night. Finally, I felt a sense of peace. I woke up on a plastic bench in the hospital corridor. No private room. No bed. Just a thin, discarded coat a kind nurse had draped over me. "You're awake?" A janitor mopped the floor nearby. "Your wife dropped you at the ER and left. Said she had to be upstairs in Cardiology for a man who was actually dying." I didn't say anything. I sat up, clutching my stomach. It burned like an ember. I pulled out my phone. One unread message. [PATIENT RECORD: Robert Mercer. Due to non-payment of medical fees, life support and medication were suspended. Patient went into cardiac failure at 2:14 AM. Pronounced dead. Please contact the morgue.] My hand shook. The phone clattered to the floor. 2:14 AM. That was when I was forced to drink that glass. When I was vomiting blood while everyone laughed. Camille had lied. She didn't pay. She used my father’s life to break me, then let him die anyway. I felt a chill settle into my bones, but no tears came. I was empty. Loud footsteps echoed from the end of the hall. Camille was marching toward me, flanked by a swarm of reporters and paparazzi with their phones out. "Adrian Mercer! You staged that little performance at the gala to distract me, and then you pushed Oliver in the confusion! You almost killed him!" Camille stood over me, her voice booming for the cameras. "Get on your knees and apologize to him. Now." The reporters began shouting questions, accusing me of being a monster. I didn't hear them. I only looked at Camille. "My father is dead. 2:14 AM. You cut the funding, and he died." Camille’s brow furrowed. "How long are you going to keep up this act? I checked—you haven't even been to the morgue. You’re using his life as a pathetic shield for your own violence." Oliver stood behind her, looking frail. "Adrian, please don't lie about your father’s death. Just admit you were jealous and tried to hurt me. I won't press charges if you just confess." The flashes of the cameras were blinding. Everyone was waiting for my confession. I stood up. In one swift motion, I snatched a phone from a reporter who was live-streaming. "Adrian! What do you think you're—" Camille started, reaching for it. I bolted. I shoved through the fire exit and ran up the stairs. I didn't stop until I reached the roof. The wind was howling. I walked to the very edge, stepping over the railing onto the narrow concrete ledge. I held the phone up, looking at the screen. The comments were a blur of "psycho," "killer," and "jump." "My name is Adrian Mercer," I said to the lens, my voice flat. "My wife, Camille Sinclair, is alive. Five years ago, she faked her death to commit insurance fraud and embezzle millions from our joint estate." The comments paused for a second, then exploded. "Oliver Whitlock is my former best friend. For a year, he lived in my house disguised as an AI butler to carry out an affair with my wife. I am not insane. Last night, Camille blackmailed me with my father’s life. She stopped his treatment at 2:14 AM. He is dead." The rooftop door was kicked open. "Adrian! Get the hell down from there!" Camille screamed, her voice cracking with fury. I looked back at the camera. "I’m jumping today to prove I'm telling the truth. I ask the authorities to investigate Camille Sinclair for fraud, embezzlement, and the wrongful death of my father." With a massive thud, Camille burst through the final barrier. She saw me on the edge and froze. "Adrian! Don't move!" She reached out, her hand actually shaking for the first time. "Come down! I'll pay for your father! I'll take you to see him right now!" She was still lying. She was still using a dead man to trick me. I looked at Camille. I didn't smile. I didn't cry. I let go of the phone. It tumbled toward the street below. And then, looking her right in the eyes, I leaned back and let gravity take me.
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