I Hated My Husband Until He Died

To pay off my familys eight-million-dollar debt to ruthless loan sharks, I married Garrett Vance, an uneducated coal mining tycoon.

He wanted me because I was a beautiful, Ivy League-educated girl. I wanted him because his bank account was a bottomless pit of cash.

I despised his lack of culture. I hated the way he smacked his lips when he chewed. Armed with his black card, I ruled his mansion like a tyrant.

Yet, whenever I maxed out his credit cards, he would just smile warmly and say, "You look so beautiful, Chloe. The boys just pulled another truck of coal out of the shaft. Its all yours to spend."

The night before Christmas Eve, Garrett went back to the West Virginia mines to hand out year-end bonuses. There was a cave-in. He didn't make it out.

Honestly? I felt a wave of relief. I was finally free of him.

I put on my best makeup, ready to board a flight to Los Angeles for a solo vacation.

But right before I left, his lawyer arrived with the key to Garrett's private safe.

Inside was a debit card containing fifty million dollars, resting on a crumpled note with messy, uneven handwriting:

"Chloe, this money is for you. Take it to LA. Go live the life youve always wanted."

Mr. Lawson, the attorney, placed the heavy brass key onto my marble dining table.

Next to it lay a sleek bank card.

"Before Mr. Vance passed," Mr. Lawson said quietly, "he made it very clear that every single dollar of this fifty million has gone through a rigorous, legal audit."

"Its completely untangled from any high-risk shadow lending or unlicensed mining profits."

"He wanted me to tell you... this money is clean."

I picked up the card.

It felt ice-cold in my hand.

Even in death, Garrett remembered my neuroses.

I had always complained that his cash smelled like coal dust. I hated the physical bills, swearing they were covered in his spit from counting them.

So, he had washed this fifty million dollars spotlessly clean, just for me.

I slid the card into my designer bag and looked up at the lawyer.

"Is there anything else?"

Mr. Lawson blinked, seemingly caught off guard by the fact that there wasn't a single tear on my face.

"No, ma'am. The remaining real estate and mining rights are caught up in complex legal disputes."

"Mr. Vances instructions were that if dealing with those messy assets became too much of a headache for you, you should just walk away. Just take this fifty million in cash and run."

I nodded.

"Understood. Please show yourself out."

Suddenly, the front door of the mansion was kicked open from the outside.

The heavy, custom-made copper door slammed against the wall with a deafening crash.

A crowd of people barged into my foyer.

Garretts relatives.

Leading the pack was his Uncle Silas, wearing a cheap suit splattered with dried mud.

His boots were clearly a size too big, leaving dark, wet streaks across my pristine Persian rug.

Behind him were seven or eight men and women from his hometown.

Silas pointed a thick, dirty finger right at my nose.

"Hand over the money, Chloe! Now that Garrett is dead, the Vance family fortune isnt staying in the hands of some outsider bitch like you!"

A woman next to him spat right onto my hardwood floor.

"Cold-hearted gold-digger! If Garrett hadnt paid off your father's debts, youd be selling your body on the streets by now!"

"Now that he's gone, you think you can just pack up and run with his cash? No way in hell!"

I sat on the velvet sofa, unmoving.

My eyes drifted to the wet puddle on my cream-colored wool rug.

It was sickening.

When Garrett was alive, as rough and uncultured as he was, he never dared to spit inside the house.

He knew I was a germaphobe. Every time he had to cough, he would run out to the backyard.

Now that he was dead, these people were ruining my home.

Seeing my silence, Silas assumed I was terrified. He marched toward me, reaching out to grab the designer bag on the table.

"I'll take that!"

I picked up my steaming cup of black coffee and threw it directly at him.

The scalding liquid splashed over the back of Silas's hand.

He shrieked, clutching his hand as he stumbled backward.

"You crazy bitch! You burned me! Trash the place! Smash everything! Find where she hid the rest of the money!"

The group raised their crowbars and iron pipes, ready to tear the living room apart.

I calmly pulled out my phone and dialed a number on speakerphone.

The dispatcher's voice echoed through the room: "911, what is your emergency?"

I spoke clearly into the receiver:

"I am at 101 Aspen Heights Drive. There is an active home invasion. A mob has forced entry into my residence with weapons and is attempting an armed robbery. I am the homeowner, Chloe Vance. I have active security cameras recording everything."

The room fell dead silent.

Silas's eyes widened in shock.

"Robbery? I'm his uncle! Taking my own nephew's money isn't robbery!"

I hung up, pulled a stack of documents from my bag, and tossed them onto the table.

"Garretts will is legally registered with the state probate court. I am his sole primary beneficiary. None of you have any blood relation to me under civil law."

"Forcing your way into a private residence with dangerous weapons to seize property is a Class A felony."

"Under state law, armed home invasion carries a minimum of ten years in federal prison."

I stood up, smoothing the creases of my silk dress.

"As for the coffee, you attempted to assault me. It was self-defense."

I looked at the head of my estate security, who had just rushed in.

"Block the exits. No one leaves until the police arrive."

My security team immediately moved into position, blocking the shattered doorway.

The relatives, who had been shouting so boldly just moments ago, instantly panicked.

Silas, clutching his red, blistering hand, hissed at me, "Chloe! You are heartless! Garretts body isnt even cold yet, and this is how you treat his family?"

I stared at him with cold, dead eyes.

"Is his body not cold, or are you just eager to pick his bones? When Garrett was alive, you leeched off his blood."

"Now that he's dead, you want to tear his corpse apart and sell it."

The police arrived minutes later.

As Silas and his crew were led out in handcuffs, they were still screaming curses at me.

Finally, the house was quiet.

I pointed to the stain on the rug and looked at my housekeeper.

"Throw it out. And sanitize every single spot they stepped on. Three times."

The housekeeper nodded, trembling as she began to clean.

I sat back down on the empty sofa, staring at the vast, silent mansion.

Garrett was dead.

The man who snored like a chainsaw, smelled of cheap tobacco, and chewed with his mouth open was gone.

No more rough, sandpaper-like hands trying to touch my face.

No more soot-covered heavy jackets hanging next to my expensive designer coats.

Even the faint scent of his cheap cigarettes had dissipated.

I traced the cold edge of the black card in my bag.

"Garrett," I thought, "you died a messy, dirty death. But you sure kept your money clean."

"I suppose that's the most dignified thing youve ever done."

10:00 PM.

The mansion was so quiet I could hear the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

I had sent the housekeeper home early.

I walked over to the mahogany liquor cabinet.

On the very top shelf sat a bottle of Domaine de la Romane-Conti.

Garrett had bought it two years ago.

He didn't know anything about wine; he just knew it was incredibly expensive. He had brought it home to please me, only to be met with my biting sarcasm.

I had told him, "Someone who drinks cheap draft beer like water would only ruin a wine like this. Don't touch it. You'll get your dirty hands all over my bottle."

Since then, he had never touched that cabinet again.

I uncorked the bottle and poured the deep red liquid into a crystal decanter.

Holding my glass, I took a slow walk through the mansion that no longer held Garrett.

It was far too quiet.

Usually, around this time, Garrett would just be getting back from the mines.

He would open the front door with extreme caution, standing at the entryway to change his shoes.

He would leave his mud-caked work boots outside on the porch, walking in on his socks, terrified of leaving a single mark on my spotless floors.

Then, he would call out in his booming voice, "Chloe! I'm home!"

"The cafeteria at the mine had some great garlic bread today, but don't worry, I didn't eat any. Didn't want to gross you out."

Then he would disappear into the bathroom, scrubbing himself raw with heavy soap, washing at least three times before he dared to even stand near me, asking sheepishly:

"Chloe... can I sleep on the bedroom floor tonight?"

But tonight, there were no muddy footprints in the foyer.

There was no sound of running water from the master bath.

No pleading, gentle voice.

I took a sip of the wine.

It was silky smooth, with notes of dark berries and oak.

This was the life I wanted. No coal dust, no loud, uncouth noises.

I pushed open the door to his study.

This room had always been Garretts private space, a place I rarely entered.

But I knew he kept a locked drawer in his desk.

I had always assumed he kept a secret stash of cash in there, or maybe photos of some girls he met at the local bars. After all, isn't that what all rich rednecks did?

Now that he was dead, there was nothing left to hide.

I grabbed a crowbar from the utility closet and pried the lock open.

The drawer slid out.

There was no cash. No photos of other women.

Just a pile of random, bizarre junk.

Hundreds of broken, blunt pencil stubs of varying lengths, piled up in a corner.

And a thick stack of crumpled, cheap yellow legal paperthe kind miners used to keep inventory.

The sheets of paper were covered in messy, dark charcoal smudges.

They were caked in black coal dust.

I frowned, picking up one of the pages.

The black dust instantly stained my fingertips.

With a grimace, I shook my hand.

The paper showed a messy, dark sketch. The lines were chaotic and thick; I couldn't even make out what it was supposed to be.

Garrett was basically illiterate. He could barely write his own name. Why on earth was he trying to draw?

The drawer smelled heavily of damp earth and sulfur.

"A leopard never changes its spots," I thought bitterly. "Even living in a multi-million dollar mansion, he couldn't leave his coal behind."

I scooped up the papers along with the broken pencil stubs and threw them all into the trash can.

A cloud of black dust billowed into the air.

I held my breath, took a few steps back, and used a wet wipe to scrub my fingers.

The black soot was stubborn, lodged deep in the ridges of my skin.

A wave of irritation washed over me.

I unlocked my phone and opened Snapchat, wanting to find someone to talk to.

I remembered a young artist I had met at a gallery downtown. He was clean, soft-spoken, and refined.

I scrolled past a contact pinned near the top of my chat lista contact I had labeled "The Coal Dust."

My finger hovered over the screen.

His profile picture was a dark, grainy photo of a mine shaft entrance.

Whenever I used to ignore his calls, he would send me endless messages...

"Hey Chloe, I'm just at the entrance of the shaft. Got some signal here. Did you eat dinner yet?"

I locked my phone.

I tossed it onto the sofa.

Looking at my half-empty wine glass, the rich taste suddenly felt incredibly bland.

I looked out into the empty living room and whispered, "Garrett, you are so annoying. Even dead, you leave your trash for me to clean up."

On the third day, the morgue called me to identify the body.

I did a full face of makeup.

I wore a black haute couture dress, pairing it with four-inch Louboutins.

To block out the smell of death and decay, I practically bathed myself in expensive French perfume.

The hallway outside the cold room was packed with people.

Aside from me, they were all families of the other miners who had died in the cave-in.

They wore dusty, oversized winter coats, kneeling on the dirty linoleum floor, sobbing hysterically with tears and snot running down their faces.

I stood there amongst them like a peacock that had wandered into a chicken coop.

An assistant walked up and offered me a blue surgical mask.

"Mrs. Vance, please prepare yourself. Mining accidents... they aren't pretty."

I took the mask, looked at the cheap, disposable fabric with distaste, and tossed it aside.

"I don't need it. Just take me in."

The assistant pushed open the heavy steel door of the cold storage room.

A sharp, overpowering wave of chemical disinfectant mixed with a sickening, metallic stench hit me instantly.

I reflexively covered my nose with a silk handkerchief.

The assistant pulled out one of the metal drawers and unzipped a yellow body bag.

"This is Garrett Vance."

I looked down.

In that fraction of a second, my chest tightened.

It wasn't the goofy, sunburned face I was used to seeing.

It was a horrific, unrecognizable mess of torn flesh and bone.

His face was caked in thick black coal dustsoot that had been ground so deeply into his skin during the collapse that it had become one with his flesh.

Half of his skull was completely caved in.

His lips were split wide, exposing teeth stained with dark residue.

The expensive Italian suit he had bought specifically to wear around me was reduced to bloody, shredded rags, stuck to his body by dried, black blood.

Dirty.

It was so incredibly dirty.

It was the most grotesque thing I had ever seen in my life.

My stomach violently turned.

It wasn't grief. It wasn't heartbreak.

It was pure, visceral physical revulsion.

I pushed the assistant aside, bent over, and retched.

I threw up my morning coffee right onto my eight-hundred-dollar designer heels.

The sobbing families outside stopped, staring at me in absolute shock.

Someone muttered under their breath, "Look at her. Her husband is dead and she doesn't even cry. She's just disgusted by him."

"Typical. Rich girls have no souls."

I heard them.

But I didn't care.

I stood up straight, wiping my mouth with my silk handkerchief.

Then, I tossed the stained handkerchief into the biohazard bin.

My eyes fell on the hand peeking out of the body bag.

Two of his fingers were broken, and the nails were packed with black dirt.

I suddenly remembered that very hand reaching out to hold the train of my wedding dress so it wouldn't touch the wet ground, only for me to kick him away.

"Don't touch me, Garrett. You're filthy."

At the time, he had slowly pulled his hand back, wiping it nervously against his trousers, smiling his usual goofy smile.

"Right. Sorry, Chloe. I'm dirty. I won't touch."

And now, he had finally become nothing more than a pile of broken, discarded flesh.

I turned to the morgue worker.

"It's him. Creamate him."

"Would you like to hold a viewing or a memorial service first, Mrs. Vance?"

"No. He didn't care for formalities when he was alive, and looking like this, theres no point in putting on a show. Just burn the body and hand me the ashes."

I turned and walked out.

My heels clicked sharply against the cold concrete floor.

In my mind, I spoke to him:

"See, Garrett?"

"Even in death, you never learned how to be clean."

"You made such a mess of yourself. How do you expect me to cry for you?"

The moment I got home, I kicked off my stained designer heels and threw them straight into the outdoor trash bin.

I walked barefoot into the silent living room.

My phone rang.

The screen lit up with the caller ID: "Dad".

I answered it.

My fathers anxious, greedy voice immediately filled the line.

"Chloe! I saw the news! Is that dirtbag Garrett really dead? Did the insurance money kick in yet? What did the lawyers say?"

I sat on the sofa, staring at the small, black urn resting on the coffee table.

"It's taken care of," I said flatly.

My fathers voice jumped an octave.

"How much? Is it over ten million?"

"Your brother needs a down payment for that penthouse in Manhattan, and his fiance is demanding a massive wedding. You need to wire us five million right now! No, make it ten!"

I didn't say a word.

My mind was suddenly pulled back to five years ago.

Back then, I was the golden girl of UPenn, holding a full scholarship, standing proudly in my white dress outside the library.

But my father had shown up with a group of angry bookies, grabbing me by my hair and dragging me toward a car.

"Who cares about your stupid degree! I owe eight million dollars! Selling you to that coal miner is the only way to save my neck!"

I had screamed, cried, and begged for help.

No one dared to intervene.

Until a mud-splattered Range Rover came speeding in, ramming straight into the bookies' car.

Garrett had jumped out of the driver's seat, holding a heavy duffel bag.

He slammed the bag onto the hood of his car, the zipper bursting open to reveal stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

He pointed a finger at the men dragging me and roared:

"Take the cash! The girl comes with me!"

On our wedding night, I had locked myself in the master bedroom, holding a pair of heavy scissors to my throat.

I screamed at him, "Don't you dare come near me! You're a kidnapper! I'd rather die than let you touch me!"

Garrett stood in the doorway, looking incredibly awkward in his ill-fitting tuxedo.

"I... I didn't mean to force you, Chloe. Your dad told me you wanted to marry me."

"He lied to you! You're nothing but an uneducated, backwood brute! You make me sick!"

Garrett scratched his head, his face turning bright red with embarrassment.

"Then... I won't touch you. You're a smart girl, a college graduate. I'm just a dumb worker. Having you in my house is enough to make me happy."

That night, he actually took a blanket and went to sleep on the living room sofa.

The leather sofa was far too small for his six-foot-three frame; he had to curl his body up like a giant, clumsy bear.

My fathers voice was still screaming through the phone.

"Are you listening to me, you ungrateful brat? Its a blessing that redneck died! Our family is finally free!"

"Get the money and bring it home. Don't you dare keep it all for yourself!"

"Free?"

I whispered the word.

I looked at the cold, black urn on the table.

Suddenly, a suffocating tightness gripped my chest.

For the first time in my life, I screamed back at my father:

"He wasn't a redneck! His name was Garrett Vance!"

My father went quiet for a second, then exploded into a rage.

"Why are you defending a dead man? He was a dirty, worthless miner! His life wasn't worth a single hair on your brothers head!"

"He was cleaner than anyone in our goddamn family!"

I slammed the phone down, ending the call, and immediately blocked his number.

I threw the phone onto the couch.

And then, without warning, tears began to stream down my face.

I touched my wet cheeks in confusion.

Why was I crying?

Was it out of joy for finally being free of my parasitic family?

Or was it because the shield that had always stood between me and those monsters had finally crumbled?

The doorbell rang.

It was Mr. Lawson again.

He held another thick Manila envelope in his hand.

"Mrs. Vance, this is the second document Mr. Vance left for you."

"He instructed me to give this to you only after you had dealt with your familys... complications, and your mind was at peace."

I wiped my tears and took the envelope.

"What is this? More money?"

Mr. Lawson shook his head, his expression incredibly solemn.

"No. Its Mr. Vances medical records."

"Medical records?"

I pulled the documents out.

At the very top was an X-ray of a pair of lungs.

The lung tissue was almost entirely black, covered in dense, spiderweb-like shadows and massive fibrotic nodules.

Below it was the official diagnosis: "Late-stage Black Lung Disease (Coal Workers' Pneumoconiosis), with severe respiratory failure."

The date on the report was from three years ago.

My hands began to shake violently.

Three years ago?

But three years ago, Garrett was as strong as an ox. He could eat a whole steak in minutes.

The lawyer spoke softly.

"Mr. Vance was diagnosed three years ago. The specialist told him that if he didn't retire from the high-dust mining environment immediately, he wouldn't survive another five years. But..."

The lawyer paused, looking at me with pity.

"But right around that time, you two had a massive argument. You told him his money smelled like filthy coal dust."

"You said you wanted 'clean' money. Money that could be moved offshore, money that didn't feel dirty."

A loud ringing filled my ears.

I remembered.

I had been mocked by my old college classmates for marrying a crude "dirt-money" miner. I had come home in a rage, smashing expensive vases.

I had pointed at his chest and screamed, "Your money is blood money, Garrett! I feel disgusted just spending it!"

Garrett had knelt on the floor, quietly picking up the shattered porcelain. After a long silence, he had looked up and said, "Don't be mad, Chloe. I'll figure something out. I'll get you clean money."

Mr. Lawson continued:

"To clean his assets and accumulate fifty million dollars in completely audited, legal cash, Mr. Vance took on several highly dangerous deep-well extraction projects."

"Those were high-yield, high-risk shafts that only desperate workers would ever touch due to the extreme dust density. But they paid the most."

"He was literally trading his remaining breath for that clean cash."

I stared at the black shadows on the X-ray.

I remembered how, over the last two years, he would always slip down to the basement late at night.

I had assumed he was sneaking cigarettes down there and had yelled at him for it.

He wasn't smoking. He was suffocating.

I remembered finding blood-stained towels in the laundry machine.

He had laughed it off, claiming it was just dry weather causing nosebleeds.

He was coughing up blood.

He was terrified of waking me.

He was terrified I would find his blood dirty.

So he would press a towel to his mouth, hiding in the dark basement, coughing his lungs to pieces in silence, never making a sound.

Because I was the beautiful, delicate swan, and he was just the mud on the ground.

How could the mud dare to stain the swan's feathers?

I gripped the plastic X-ray sheet so hard the sharp edge sliced into my finger.

A drop of bright red blood dripped onto the black image of his ruined lungs.

"Garrett."

"Are you completely stupid?"

"The money you bought with your dying breath is sitting in my purse right now."

"But why does this fifty million feel so much hotter than the coal dust you lived in?"