Chapter 7
When Julian finally woke up, I was already in the kitchen, busy.
He frowned from the doorway. “You could’ve just had someone bring food in. Why are you up this early?”
I shook my head, smiling gently. “I wanted to cook for you today.”
Soft. Sweet. Just like I was when he first met me.
He froze for a second, caught off guard. Maybe it was the smile. Or maybe the fact I wasn’t crying, screaming, or begging. Not like I had been for months.
Maybe the whole Rachel fiasco gave our marriage the crisis it needed. Maybe fear was the only thing that ever got his attention.
He smiled back, pleased with himself. “Damn. It’s been a long time since I had your cooking. I’ll wait.”
I gently nudged him out of the kitchen. He didn’t know.
This would be the last meal I ever made for him.
Two hours later, I laid out a full spread. Homemade roast chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, fresh salad, the works.
Julian was just picking up his fork when his phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen, face tightening. Then he set the fork down and walked out to take the call.
I couldn’t hear a word.
But The System had no such limitations. A little parting gift before my erasure.
[Rachel Carter’s having stomach pains. She wants him there.]
[Guess who he’s gonna choose, Isla?]
My face went cold.
Julian stepped back into the room, grabbing his coat.
“Something urgent came up at the office. I’ll be back soon, I promise.”
Liar. Smooth as ever.
I grabbed his wrist. “You said you’d stay with me today.”
There must’ve been something in my eyes—something broken—because he hesitated.
Then he pulled free. “I told you, I won’t be long. Just stay here.”
Tears stung my eyes. My voice caught.
“Will you come back tonight?”
He paused, then forced a smile. “Of course.”
And just like that, he left.
I stood there for a long time.
When the countdown hit 5 hours, 22 minutes, and 12 seconds, I finally heard the front door.
But it wasn’t Julian.
It was his mother.
She didn’t even need The System. She just shoved her phone in my face.
There they were. Julian and Rachel. He had his arms around her like she was fragile, precious.
“You see?” Mrs. Carter’s voice was soft, almost kind. “He cares for her. He took her to the hospital himself.”
She handed me a black card. “There’s a million dollars on this. Sign the divorce papers and walk away. You’ll be taken care of.”
I pushed the card back.
“I don’t want your money.”
She looked like she was about to explode.
But then I picked up the pen and signed without hesitation.
Satisfied, she took the papers and left.
The house fell silent again. The countdown glowed in the air.
Four hours left.
I reheated the food. No reason to waste it.
Then I sat down at the dining table with a pen and paper and started my letter.
Funny how peaceful I felt.
By the time I was done, two hours remained.
I didn’t cry. Didn’t scream.
I just sat on the couch and waited.
Waited for death.
Waited for him.
Then I heard it. The System’s cold hum.
[Penalty initiated. Erasure protocol commencing.]
[Erasure in progress.]
The pain started in my bones—deep and sharp—and radiated outward like shattered glass tearing through my veins.
I collapsed onto the floor. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream.
[Countdown: 10, 9, 8…]
Blood filled my mouth. I coughed, choking, eyes burning.
[3, 2, 1.]
My vision blurred. I saw the table.
The food was cold again.
I didn’t get to eat with him. Not one last time.
[Erasure complete. Host terminated.]
…
Julian Carter came home the next morning, exhaustion clinging to him like smoke.
The house was still. Quiet in the wrong way.
He stepped inside and stopped short. The dining table was still set, food laid out but cold, untouched.
Something in his chest clenched.
He looked around—and there she was. Isla, curled up on the floor beside the couch like she’d just fallen asleep.
His brows pulled together as he walked over, annoyed more than concerned. “Really? Sleeping on the floor when you’re not even in good health? What is this—some twisted attempt to make me feel guilty?”
But she didn’t move. Not a twitch. Not even a breath.
Panic slammed into him.
“Isla? Baby, come on, get up.”
He knelt, reaching out to lift her, and the second his fingers brushed her skin, ice stabbed through his veins.
Her body was cold. Not cool. Cold.
