Back then, I was too young and didn’t know what to do.

All I knew was that the pain in my chest was so immense I could barely feel anything else.

Afraid he’d misunderstand again, I didn’t dare touch his card.

In the end, I got the $500,000 from a so-called “friend” of his. The catch? I had to go out for drinks with him alone.

I ended up at the club, drinking until I collapsed, later, the doctors said I’d given myself a bleeding ulcer. Jason was furious when he came to pick me up at two in the morning.

He didn’t say a word the whole drive home, not until we were inside did he finally explode.

“Do you have any idea what could have happened if I’d gotten there any later?”

“Is money really that important to you?”

“God, you’re pathetic!”

I sat in the car, burning with humiliation. My stomach hurt. And my heart felt even emptier.

From that day on, “gold digger” and “money hungry” were labels I could never shake off.

His friends would make jokes, and he never corrected them. Sometimes, he even joined in the laughter.

Later, my father didn’t make it.

The day he died, I called Jason, hysterical. He was in a meeting and hung up.

I sent a flood of voice messages, some explaining, some just crying.

After a long time, he sent me a notification.

[You received $888 from Jason Mitchell]

I stared at the $888 on the screen, my hands shaking so badly that the color drained from my face.

After that day, Jason and I became married strangers.

He stopped responding to my messages entirely. He just kept sending money, reminding me over and over that I was a shameless gold digger.

But weirdly, he never mentioned divorce.

I picked up my prescription from the pharmacy.

When I got home, the apartment was freezing.

The pain in my leg was getting worse, a deep, stabbing ache that radiated from the bone through muscle and skin.

My hands trembling, I poured out some painkillers and swallowed two sleeping pills along with them.

The drugs kicked in fast.

As my consciousness started to fade, I looked up at the huge wedding photo on the wall.

Jason was smiling so brightly, his eyes full of warmth, and me.

That was taken when we loved each other the most.

He used to hold my face and give me little kisses, saying with a laugh, “Emily, I’m going to take care of you forever.”

Forever. What an empty lie.

With shaking fingers, I typed into the chat: [Jason, if I died, would you be sad?]

I hit send.

Almost instantly, my phone buzzed.

A payment alert. Again.

I stared at that notification for a very, very long time.

Then I clamped my hand over my mouth and ran to the bathroom, dry heaving into the toilet until all that came up were tears, blurring my vision.

The medicine hit me harder.

I collapsed on the bed, my vision fading in and out.

In a daze, I thought I saw Jason at twenty years old, walking toward me, grinning as he tucked a flower behind my ear.

“Hey, will you marry me?”

I smiled and reached for him, my lips parting to say yes, but a tear fell first.

This is fine. It’s better if I don’t wake up.

At least the Jason in my dreams would never tell me that marrying me was the biggest regret of his life.