Three Chapters Left To Live

Ive always had a God-given talent for reaching into other peoples pockets.

When I accidentally became the convenient, purchased stand-in for a female billionaire's untouchable first love, I played the part so well that in just one year, I managed to siphon off fifty million dollars.

That day, I was lounging with my phone, happily counting the commas in my offshore bank account.

Then, without warning, the floating text appeared.

It overlaid my vision like a glitchy, digital hallucinationa rolling feed of comments and script notes dictating my reality. The text warned me that the "Golden Boy"the real first lovewas coming back. It said guys like me, the cheap knockoffs, never survived the third act. It literally told me I had about three chapters left to live.

People in the floating text were begging me to fake my death and run. They said if I didn't, the CEO would break my legs and lock me away the second her real love asked her to. They talked about it like it was a tragic, inevitable fate. Like I was a fly trapped in amber.

Reading those words, the thrill of my fifty million vanished into thin air.

Before I could even formulate a plan to ghost my own life, I was dragged to the lavish welcome-back gala for Tristan. The Golden Boy himself.

Tristan wore a saccharine, fake smile as he picked up a ridiculously heavy, diamond-encrusted watch and clamped it around my wrist. He leaned in, his cologne suffocatingly sweet, and whispered that he heard I liked money. This watch, he said, was something his dog had gotten bored of playing with. Now, he was tossing it to me as a tip.

Right then, the floating text in my vision exploded into a frenzy.

They were screaming at me to take the watch off. [Throw it away!] they warned. [Its laced with radiation! If you wear it, youll be dead before the week is out!] They said if I kept it on, the next chapter would be my funeral.

Staring at the scrolling warnings, a strange calm washed over me. I finally had a plan.

I knew exactly how I was going to fake my death and disappear.

1.

The room erupted in polite, mocking laughter.

I kept my head down for a second, then looked up, pulling my lips into a slow, deliberate smile.

"Mr. Tristan going out of his way to humiliate me like this"

I let the sentence hang, my gaze driving straight through his eyes.

"Is it because you still can't let Debby go?"

[LMAO SAVAGE! Hit him right where it hurts!]

[Bro knows exactly how to uno reverse!]

Tristans smug smile froze.

The air in the penthouse suddenly shifted. The quiet, contemptuous amusement of the elite crowd morphed into a breathless, eavesdropping silence. I watched the blood drain from Tristans face, leaving him pale, before it rushed back in a blotchy, furious red.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he spat.

I didn't answer. I just kept smiling, letting my eyes drift past his shoulder to the woman sitting on the velvet sofa behind him.

Debby had stopped swirling the amber liquid in her crystal glass. Her eyes, usually so cold and unreadable, held a flicker of something dangerously close to anticipation.

The whispers began, swelling like a rising tide.

"Is Tristan actually still in love with Debby?"

"Why else would he target Cameron so hard? The guy is literally just a hired stand-in."

"He probably wants his old life back but is too proud to say it."

Tristans eyes grew red-rimmed and damp.

That was all it took for Debby's heart to ache. Her voice cut through the room, sharp as a whip.

"Cameron. Remember your place."

I lowered my eyes, the picture of absolute submission. "Of course, Debby."

Then, I casually unclasped the heavy watch, holding it up by the strap toward Tristan. "Thank you for the thought, Tristan. Even if the motive was a bit pathetic, the diamonds are real. I'll gladly keep it."

Tristan was shaking with rage. He snapped his head toward Debby. "Keep your dog on a leash, Debby. Hes dragging down the class of the whole room."

Debby frowned, a tiny crease appearing between her perfectly sculpted brows.

I looked at her, timing my exit perfectly. "Should I leave?"

The room went dead silent again. Everyone was waiting for the billionaire to make her call.

She let the silence stretch for two agonizing seconds, then stood up and suddenly grabbed my hand. "If Tristan doesn't want us here, then well leave."

[WTF? The cold-hearted CEO is protecting the stand-in?]

[Something is wrong! Isn't she obsessed with the first love?]

I froze. Tristan looked like hed been struck by lightning.

He opened his mouth, but before he could form a word, Debby was already pulling me toward the grand double doors.

Just as we reached the threshold, Tristans voice finally cracked through the room. "Debby! Are you really going to ruin my night for him?"

Debby didn't even turn around. Her voice was ice. "He came with me. Insulting him is insulting me."

Tristan choked on his next words. His chest heaved, his face a canvas of pure humiliation.

The sycophants in the room immediately swarmed in to do damage control.

"Come on, Debby, don't be rash. Tristan was just joking around."

"Yeah, its his welcome-home party. Leaving now ruins the mood."

"Tristan, say something."

But Tristan just stood there, jaw locked.

I looked at Debbys profile. Her lips were pressed in a tight line, her eyes swirling with an emotion I couldn't quite decipher. But I wasn't stupid. I knew she wasn't doing this to protect me.

She was playing a game of chicken. She wanted to see if Tristan would beg her to stay.

I had no interest in being a prop in their twisted romantic power play. I gently pulled my hand out of her grip. "Debby, please don't fight with Tristan because of me. I can grab a cab back to the estate."

She didn't let go immediately. Her grip tightened.

But the whispers around her grew louder. "Debby, he just got back to the States. Don't do this."

"Exactly, just talk it out. Don't burn bridges."

"Mr. Cameron is offering to leave anyway. Don't make it harder than it has to be."

Debby stayed silent for a long, heavy moment.

Long enough that I actually thought she might hold on.

Then, her fingers went slack. She let me go.

[Wow. She gave up just like that?]

[A simp is always a simp.]

I let out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh, turned around, and started walking out the door.

"Stop."

Tristans voice rang out, dripping with renewed confidence.

I paused and looked back. He was looking at me, that sickening smile back on his face.

"Mr. Cameron ruined my party. Letting you just walk out of here" He took a slow sip of his champagne. "That would be insulting to me."

I furrowed my brow. "What do you want?"

He swirled his glass, his eyes locking onto mine with malicious glee. "I want you"

He paused, letting the cruelty settle over the room.

"To crawl out."

2.

I looked at Debby.

She was frowning, her eyes darting between Tristan and me, a silent calculation happening behind her beautiful, empty face.

"A million dollars," she said quietly. "Do what he asks."

The tiny, pathetic ember of hope I didnt even realize I was harboring hissed and died in my chest.

I pulled my gaze away from her, the corners of my mouth curling into a bitter smirk. "Sorry. I have no interest in entertaining your sick fetishes."

I turned my back and walked.

Just as I reached the elevator, a violent, shattering crash erupted behind me. Crystal glass exploding against marble.

Then came Tristans voice, trembling with outraged entitlement: "Debby! You're just going to let him walk away?!"

I didn't turn back to look. But my footsteps did falter, just for a fraction of a second.

When I got back to the sprawling glass-and-steel mansion, I stood in the foyer, staring at the place I had lived for over a year. Debby was always working or traveling. Most of the time, it had just been me, wandering alone through rooms filled with silent, expensive things.

I went upstairs and packed only the essentials into a single duffel bag.

Before I left, I grabbed a sticky note and a pen. I wrote a single line and slapped it onto the cover of the Forbes magazine sitting on her nightstand.

Debby: I'm leaving. A stand-in should know when his time is up. Me staying will only cause more misunderstandings between you and Tristan. Take care. Cameron.

I walked out the front door and looked back at the gilded cage one last time.

It would be a lie to say there wasn't a pang of melancholy. But mostly? Mostly, I felt relief.

I was so incredibly thankful that I had always known exactly what I was. I had never, not for a single second, given her my real heart.

[Bro is way too naive...]

[If the plot armor wants you dead, you can't just walk away.]

[I feel so bad for him. He has no idea what's coming.]

I knew the script wouldn't let me go that easily. I just needed to buy myself a few days while Debby was distracted with her Golden Boy, enough time to execute my "death" perfectly.

I rented a dingy, cash-only apartment deep in a gritty borough. It was a chaotic neighborhood with no security cameras. Even with Debby's resources, it would take her a minute to track me down here.

Once the deadbolts were locked, I opened my laptop and started searching.

Custom high-end watch replicas.

Early stage radiation poisoning symptoms.

List of corrupt radiologists in private hospitals.

[??? Wait, what is bro cooking?]

[Is he making a fake watch? To pretend he got sick?]

[Genius! Turn the white moonlight's gift into a murder weapon! Let's see him play the victim then!]

[But no real doctor is gonna risk their license for that. He needs someone with dirt on them.]

I scrolled through the search results, my fingers flying across the keyboard into the early hours of the morning.

The next day, wearing a baseball cap and a surgical mask, I walked into a run-down watch repair shop sandwiched between a tire shop and a shuttered laundromat. The neon sign in the window was half-burnt out.

The owner was a guy in his fifties, chewing on an unlit cigar, squinting at me with absolute apathy.

I slapped a glossy photo of the watch on the glass counter. "I need an exact replica. Real diamonds. The craftsmanship has to be identical down to the microscopic engravings."

The old man picked up the photo, then looked me up and down. "Kid, this isn't gonna be cheap. Real ice? You're looking at six figures, minimum."

I reached into my bag and pushed two thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills across the glass. "This is the deposit. Name your final price. I don't care."

He flicked the cigar to the other side of his mouth and grinned. "You got it. Give me three days."

For the next two days, I ran background checks on every senior radiologist and oncologist in the tri-state area.

My target doctor needed to meet three very specific criteria:

a. Experience with radiation trauma, so the medical reports would hold up to scrutiny.

b. Desperate for money or hiding a massive secret, so they'd be willing to commit fraud.

c. A closed mouth.

I narrowed it down to three.

Dr. Evans, 45, drowning in medical debt from his wife's terminal illness.

Dr. Wallace, 38, private oncology clinic, rumors of taking massive kickbacks from pharmaceutical reps.

Dr. Miller, 52, paying off his son's gambling debts to some very dangerous people.

I planned to make contact tomorrow.

I was just about to close my laptop and finally sleep when my vision suddenly flared red. The floating text began scrolling at a frantic, terrifying speed.

[WARNING! WARNING! ALARM!]

[WAKE UP! RUN!]

[URGENT UPDATE: Tristan just stabbed himself! Half an hour ago!]

[He's in the ER claiming YOU did it!]

[Debby is already on her way to you! She believes him!]

[SHE ACTUALLY BELIEVES HIM!!!]

[RUN DAMMIT!!!]

The blood in my veins turned to ice.

I sat frozen in the glow of the screen. Because I knew, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that running was useless.

3.

I chose to surrender in the cramped, grimy apartment.

Even if this was a scripted reality, it was still a society with laws. The worst that could happen was going to jail for a stabbing I didn't commit. We could take it to court.

The flimsy door was finally kicked open.

Debby stood in the hallway, her aura as suffocating and dark as a looming hurricane. In her fist, completely crumpled, was the sticky note I had left on her nightstand.

"Cameron." Her voice was soft. So soft it made the hairs on my arms stand up. "Tristan is lying in a hospital bed. He says you drove a knife into him."

I met her cold stare. "I didn't do it."

"He has a puncture wound in his abdomen. His blood soaked through the mattress." She stepped into the room, her designer heels clicking against the cheap linoleum. "And you... you vanished the exact same night, leaving a pathetic little note about knowing your place."

I searched her eyes. I saw pain. I saw fury. I saw crushing disappointment.

The only thing I didn't see was a single ounce of doubt.

She really did believe him.

A hollow, broken laugh escaped my throat. "Debby. Did you come here to hear my side of the story, or did you already pass the sentence before you got out of the car?"

She went dead silent for one second.

That one second of silence was all the answer I needed.

"Take him," she ordered.

I thought her security detail was going to drag me to a police precinct.

I was wrong.

The black SUV drove for two hours into the deep, desolate woods upstate, finally stopping in front of a pair of towering, rusted iron gates.

Briarwood Psychiatric Facility.

"Debby..." My voice finally broke, trembling as I looked at the imposing brick building. "What are you doing?"

She looked at me, her eyes as dead and stagnant as stagnant water. "Tristan says your mental state has been erratic. He says you're showing severe violent tendencies and paranoia. He doesn't want to press charges and ruin your life. He just wants you to get the help you need."

"I didn't stab him!" I lunged forward, grabbing the fabric of her coat. "Debby, look at me! Believe me, just this once"

She physically pried my fingers off her coat, stepping back.

"Get well soon, Cameron."

The heavy car door slammed shut.

[WTF WTF WTF! A PSYCH WARD?!]

[This is worse than prison! A sane person will literally go crazy in there!]

[Tristan is purely evil. He gets rid of the male lead and plays the forgiving saint at the same time!]

[DEBBY YOU ARE SO FUCKING BLIND!!!]

Two massive orderlies grabbed me by the armpits and dragged me through those rusted gates.

Behind me, the red taillights of Debbys SUV bled into the darkness and disappeared.

The corridors inside were endless. Suffocating. The sickly fluorescent lights hummed overhead, mixing with the sharp, clinical stench of bleach and the distant, muffled sounds of screamingor maybe it was laughing. I couldn't tell.

I was thrown into a solitary confinement cell. A metal bed bolted to the floor. Barred windows. A heavy steel door.

When the deadbolt clicked into place, I squeezed my eyes shut.

Was I really going to be tortured to death by the plot?

Not long after, I was dragged out and strapped into a chair in a suffocatingly small room.

A man in a white coat sat across from me, casually flipping through a fresh chart. Dr. Wallace. My target number two.

"Cameron," Dr. Wallace said, not looking up. "According to the party who committed you, you suffer from severe violent delusions and paranoia."

"I am perfectly sane."

He smileda thin, corporate smileand gave a subtle nod to the orderlies.

They slammed me back against the chair. Heavy leather straps were buckled tight over my wrists and ankles.

Cold, wet electrode pads were pressed against my temples.

The exact moment the current ripped into my skull, my entire universe turned blindingly, agonizingly white.

It felt like a thousand burning needles were being hammered directly into my brain. My body seized, violently thrashing against the thick leather restraints, completely out of my control.

I don't know how much time passed.

The current stopped.

I slumped forward in the chair, my clothes completely soaked in sweat, my chest heaving as I gasped for air.

"That was session one," Dr. Wallace's voice floated over to me, sounding like it was underwater. "We have nine more scheduled."

I looked at him through eyes blurred with tears of pure agony.

"How much... did Tristan pay you?" I choked out.

He paused, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he chuckled. He leaned in close to my ear.

"Enough to make sure you live in this room for the rest of your natural life."

[ANIMAL!!!]

[This is actual murder without leaving a corpse!!!]

[Someone spoil this for me, please tell me he gets out! He can't actually die here!]

I was dragged back to my cell and tossed onto the hard mattress.

My body was still convulsing with aftershocks. The skin at my temples felt like it was on fire. I curled into a tight, shivering ball, staring blankly at the concrete wall as tears leaked from my eyes.

It wasn't fear.

It was pure, unadulterated hatred.

Tristan.

That name was now permanently burned into the scarred tissue of my brain.