Taggart Simon Hudson

I faked my own death to see who would cry at my funeral. My husband didn't even show up for the first hour. But his mistress? She arrived in a brand-new black dress, dabbing dry eyes with a silk handkerchief—the same handkerchief I'd bought for Darren on our anniversary. I stood in the back of the funeral home, disguised in a dark wig and sunglasses, watching every single person who walked through those doors. My best friend Kiera was sobbing uncontrollably. My mother clutched my framed photo to her chest like she was holding me one last time. My colleagues from the hospital whispered how tragic it was—a 28-year-old surgeon, gone too soon. And then there was her. Megan Cross. She walked straight to my casket—which held a wax figure my mother had commissioned—and placed a single white rose on top. Then she turned to the crowd and said, "I promised Vivian I'd take care of Darren. She asked me to, before she passed." My mother's head snapped up. "Excuse me? My daughter never mentioned you. Who are you?" Megan smiled softly—that practiced, delicate smile I'd seen her rehearse in videos Darren didn't know I'd found on his phone. "I'm Darren's colleague. Vivian and I were close. She knew about me and Darren, and she gave us her blessing." The audacity nearly made me blow my cover right there. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. My mother stood up, trembling with fury. "Get out. Get out of my daughter's funeral." But Megan didn't move. She looked toward the entrance and said, "Darren, tell them." And there he was. My husband of three years walked in wearing a suit I'd never seen before. A new suit. For my funeral. He looked—refreshed. Like he'd slept well for the first time in months. He put his arm around Megan's waist. At my funeral. In front of my mother. "Mrs. Cole, I know this is hard," Darren said. "But Vivian was sick for a long time. She told me she wanted me to move on. Megan and I—we didn't plan this. It just happened." I was never sick. Not a single day. The "illness" was his invention—a story he'd been feeding everyone for six months to explain why I looked tired, why I'd lost weight, why I'd stopped coming to social events. The truth? He'd been drugging my food. I only discovered it three weeks ago when my bloodwork came back with traces of sedatives I'd never prescribed for myself. That's when I started planning. My mother slapped him so hard the sound echoed through the funeral parlor. "You disgusting liar. My daughter was perfectly healthy until she married you." Darren's face hardened. He grabbed my mother's wrist. "Don't make a scene. Vivian is gone. There's nothing you can do about it." Kiera jumped between them. "Let go of her, you psychopath!" Security moved in. The room erupted into chaos. And I stood in the back, recording everything on my phone. Because Darren didn't just cheat on me. He didn't just drug me. He was planning to kill me for real—for the $8 million life insurance policy he'd taken out in my name six months ago. The only reason I'm still alive is because I found the policy before he could finish what he started. So I died first—on my own terms. And now, I was going to destroy him. I pulled out my phone and sent one text to my lawyer. "It's time. Release everything." Then I took off my sunglasses and walked toward the casket.