Kamilah Worthington had always imagined that death would be frightening. She had spent countless nights as a child lying awake in her oversized bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering what it would feel like when the end finally came.
She had pictured a dramatic realization, perhaps a sudden clarity about all the things she should have done differently, or a overwhelming sense of regret that would wash over her in those final moments.
She had expected tears, maybe. Or fear. Or at the very least, some desperate attempt to cling to the life she had been given.
But as she lay alone in her bedroom with a bloodstained handkerchief clutched in her trembling hand, all she could feel was an overwhelming sense of exhaustion.
It was the kind of tiredness that had seeped into her bones months ago and had never truly left, no matter how many hours she spent resting or how many cups of tea she drank in a futile attempt to feel human again.
Her body had been growing weaker for months, deteriorating in ways she had tried desperately to ignore. The fevers that came and went without warning, leaving her drenched in sweat and shivering beneath layers of blankets.
The bruises that appeared without reason, purple and blue blooms on her pale skin that she had hidden beneath long sleeves and carefully chosen dresses. The constant dizziness that made the world spin even when she was lying perfectly still. And the fatigue—the unbearable, bone-deep fatigue that made even the simplest tasks feel like climbing a mountain.
She had already received enough warnings from the doctors to understand what was happening to her, even if she had desperately tried to convince herself otherwise.
She had sat in sterile examination rooms and listened to their careful explanations, their medical terminology that softened the blow of what they were really saying. She had nodded along, asked the right questions, and then gone home to pretend that nothing had changed.
She had told herself that they were wrong, that she was just tired, that she needed more rest and better food and perhaps a vacation somewhere warm. She had convinced herself that if she just ignored the problem long enough, it would simply go away.
But the blood on the handkerchief told a different story.
Another cough forced her to lean forward, her body convulsed as her lungs fought to expel whatever was slowly killing her from the inside. This time, more blood stained the fabric of the handkerchief, bright red against the linen, and Kamilah stared at it quietly for a long moment before closing her fingers around the handkerchief.
She could feel the warmth of it against her palm, the dampness seeping through the fabric, and she thought about how strange it was that something so vital could look so harmless when it was outside the body.
She knew she was running out of time. The treatment she needed was expensive—far more expensive than most people could afford, though money had never been an issue for her family. The Worthingtons were one of the wealthiest families in the country, their name were synonymous with old money and even older traditions.
They had built their empire over generations, accumulating wealth and influence until there was no corner of society they did not touch.
And yet, despite all of that, Kamilah had found herself unable to access the one thing she needed most.
By the time she had finally understood how serious her condition was, she had already become too weak to do much about it. She had spent so long ignoring the signs, convincing herself that she was fine, that she had wasted precious months that could have been spent seeking treatment.
Perhaps if she had acted sooner, things would have been different. Perhaps if she had told her family, someone would have helped her. Perhaps if she had been brave enough to admit that she was dying, someone would have cared.
Yet tonight, she found herself alone in the enormous bedroom that was supposed to belong to one of the most fortunate heiresses in the country.
The room was beautiful, as all the rooms in the Worthington estate were beautiful. The walls were painted in a soft cream color, adorned with priceless paintings and delicate wallpaper that had been imported from France.
The furniture was antique, each piece was carefully selected and maintained by staff who understood their value.
And yet, Kamilah had never felt more alone in her entire life.
Her phone vibrated on the nightstand, the soft buzzing sound cut through the silence of the room and draw her attention away from the blood in her hand. She hesitated for a moment, her gaze lingered on the handkerchief, before she reached for the phone with trembling fingers.
When she picked it up, she found several new messages in the family group chat, the notifications piling on top of each other in a way that suggested everyone had been busy tonight.
Photographs from the birthday celebration filled the screen.
Kamilah scrolled through them slowly, her thumb was moving across the glass as she took in each image with a strange detachment that she had learned to cultivate over years of being excluded.
The ballroom had been decorated beautifully with flowers and golden lights, the kind of opulent display that the Worthingtons were famous for. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their light was reflecting off polished marble floors and the sparkling jewels of the guests who had been fortunate enough to receive an invitation.
The tables had been draped in white silk, adorned with centerpieces of roses and lilies that must have cost a fortune. Everything was perfect, exactly as it should be for a celebration of this magnitude.
And at the center of almost every photograph stood Livia, their beloved adopted daughter, smiled brightly as their parents and Kamilah’s siblings surrounded her.
Livia Worthington was the kind of woman who commanded attention without trying. She was beautiful in a way that seemed almost unreal, with porcelain skin, honey-colored hair that fell in perfect waves past her shoulders, and eyes the color of warm amber that sparkled with an inner light.
She had been adopted into the family when she was twelve years old, a charity case that her parents had taken in after her own family had fallen on hard times. They had raised her as one of their own, given her everything she could ever want, and in return, she had become the golden child that Kamilah had never been able to compete with.
Everyone looked happy in the photographs. Everyone looked exactly where they wanted to be.
Kamilah scrolled through the pictures slowly, her gaze was drifting from one familiar face to another. There was her mother, elegant and composed as always, her silver hair swept up in a sophisticated bun and a smile that reached her eyes.
There was her father, tall and distinguished in his tailored suit, his hand was resting on Livia’s shoulder in a gesture of paternal affection that Kamilah could not remember him ever showing her.
There were her brothers and sisters, laughing and raising glasses of champagne, their faces were flushed with joy and the warm glow of the ballroom lights.
She paused when she saw Maeve.
Her wife was standing near Livia with the affectionate eyes she never wore with Kamilah.
Maeve Ricarda Belvedere had always been difficult to read, even for someone who had spent years trying to understand her. She was tall and composed, with sharp features and dark hair that she wore pulled back from her face.
There was something intimidating about her presence, an intensity that made people instinctively give her space. She carried herself with the confidence of someone who had never needed to prove herself to anyone, and perhaps that was because she had never needed to.
Even after years of marriage, Kamilah had never been able to tell what was going through her mind.
Their marriage had never been built on love. It had been an agreement between two families, a business arrangement designed to consolidate power and wealth in a way that benefited everyone involved except the two people who were actually getting married.
Maeve had made it clear from the beginning that she did not expect anything more from it. She had been honest about her intentions, at least, which was more than Kamilah could say for most people in her life.
She had told Kamilah on their wedding night that she would fulfill her duties as a wife, that she would be faithful and respectful, but that she would never love her.
Kamilah had accepted that long ago. She had accepted it so completely that she had already decided what she would do if she survived this illness. She would make sure Maeve was free.
She wanted her to find happiness, even if it meant Kamilah would never get to see it.
A weak smile appeared on Kamilah’s face as she looked at the photograph again. The image was slightly blurry, as if someone had taken it while they were laughing or moving, but she could still make out the details.
Livia was holding a bouquet of roses, her face was radiant with joy as she posed with their parents. The cake behind her was enormous, five tiers of white fondant decorated with gold leaf and fresh flowers. It must have cost thousands of dollars, but that was nothing to the Worthingtons.
They spent money like it was water, never thinking twice about the cost of anything as long as it maintained their image of wealth and sophistication.
"Happy birthday, Livia," she whispered, although she knew no one would hear her.
Her gaze eventually returned to Maeve, and for a moment she allowed herself to wonder whether her wife would even notice if she disappeared.
The thought hurt more than she expected, a sharp ache in her chest that had nothing to do with her illness. She had told herself so many times that she did not care, that she had accepted the terms of their marriage and had no right to expect anything more.
But there was a part of her that still hoped, still wished, still dreamed of something that had never been hers to begin with.
Would Maeve cry at her funeral? Would she stand by the grave with that same distant expression, or would something crack beneath the surface? Would she feel relief, perhaps, knowing that she was finally free?
Kamilah did not know which answer would hurt more. She quickly pushed the thought aside, burying it beneath the familiar weight of resignation that had become her constant companion. Their relationship had never been what people imagined it was, and she had no right to demand feelings from someone who had never promised them.
Her chest tightened suddenly, a familiar pressure that she had grown accustomed to over the past few weeks. It was followed by another violent cough, one that wracked her entire body and left her gasping for air.
Kamilah dropped the phone onto the bed and covered her mouth with the handkerchief, her shoulders are shaking as she fought to breathe. When she pulled the fabric away, there was even more blood than before. The white linen was almost entirely red now, soaked through with evidence of her failing body.
But what frightened her was something else entirely. What frightened her was the thought that she had lived her entire life without ever feeling as though it truly belonged to her. She had spent years trying to become the daughter her parents would be proud of, the sister her siblings would remember, and the wife Maeve could tolerate.
She had molded herself into whatever shape they needed her to be, smoothing down her rough edges and hiding the parts of herself that did not fit their expectations.
She had been obedient when they wanted obedience. She had been quiet when they wanted silence. She had been invisible when they wanted to pretend she did not exist. She had given them everything they asked for, sacrificed every piece of herself that did not align with their vision of who she should be, and in return, they had given her nothing but loneliness and a slow, painful death.
Yet now, with death approaching and the end finally in sight, she could not think of a single thing she had done purely for herself. Not one moment or one decision, not even one breath that had been taken for her own sake.
Her eyes slowly filled with tears as she looked at the family photographs on her phone one last time. She scrolled back through them, her vision was blurring as she took in each smiling face.
Her mother, who had never once told her she was proud of her. Her father, who had looked through her as if she were a stranger. Her brothers and sisters, who had always treated her as an outsider despite sharing the same blood. And Livia, who had somehow managed to steal everything that should have been hers without ever seeming to try.
She didn’t hate them. That was perhaps the saddest part. Even after everything, even after years of neglect and dismissal and the slow erosion of her self-worth, Kamilah still loved them enough to wish them happiness.
She still hoped that they would find joy, that they would live full lives, that they would never know the kind of pain she had experienced. She especially hoped Maeve would be happy after she was gone. She hoped Maeve would find someone who could give her the love she deserved, someone who could make her smile in a way that Kamilah had never been able to.
"If I ever get another chance," she whispered, her voice was barely audible beneath the distant fireworks, "I’ll live for myself."
Her fingers loosened around the phone as exhaustion finally overwhelmed her. The device slipped from her grasp and landed softly on the bed beside her, the screen was still glowing with images of her family’s celebration.
Kamilah closed her eyes, her breathing was growing slower and shallower with each passing moment. She could feel herself fading, and the darkness was creeping in from the edges of her vision.
She was not afraid, angry, or sad.
She was simply tired, and she was finally ready to rest.
As the last of her consciousness slipped away, she was unaware that the promise she had just made would soon become the beginning of an entirely different life.