The Death That Bought Me Back

Eveline's POV

I was dead.

I knew it with absolute certainty.

I felt like I was floating above my Santa Monica oceanview apartment, watching the woman below slumped on the sofa—wrinkled silk robe, face ashen.

The phone lay on the floor beside me, its screen dark. It had slipped from my fingers just moments before, its battery finally giving out after showing me that final, cruel image.

"Theo, your timing was always terrible," I muttered bitterly to no one. "This time you couldn't even hear my last words."

Outside, ocean winds howled while the Hollywood Hills sparkled with lights—those dream factories I had once fought for now felt worlds away.

I remembered that final phone call.

The crushing pain from pancreatic cancer made me realize time was running out. The sea breeze and distant mountain lights stirred too many memories. I wanted to tell Theodore I was getting worse, to hear his voice, even if it was just token sympathy.

The call was disconnected the moment it went through. No hesitation, no pause.

I smiled bitterly and sent a lengthy email, carefully laying out my estate distribution—including the network connections and unexpired licensing agreements I had accumulated for him.

After sending it, I habitually opened Instagram. Then I saw Lydia Crowe's latest post.

Under the ambient lighting of Spago Beverly Hills, she and Theodore raised champagne glasses, their smiles sickeningly perfect. The caption read: "Tonight feels like magic✨"

Posted: ten minutes ago.

I stared at that photo, my mind calculating the distance—Beverly Hills to Santa Monica, normal drive time 45 minutes.

They were celebrating something while I was sending my final email. Celebrating that I was about to become history?

The phone slipped from my fingers.

The pancreatic pain struck as expected, more vicious than ever before. I collapsed on the living room floor, blood seeping from the corner of my mouth, each breath feeling like blades slicing through my organs.

I crawled back to the sofa with what little strength remained, using my last energy to mock myself: "Looks like this wife is about to expire. And he's already found a younger replacement."

The phone screen went completely black. Theodore hadn't replied to my email, hadn't called back, hadn't responded at all. In my final moments, he chose to share a magic moment with another woman.

The apartment still looked exactly like it did when we first moved in together, back in those early days, but everything had been collecting dust forever.

On the wall, award ceremony photos showed Theodore with his arm around my shoulder, throwing up peace signs at the camera.

Those photos now felt cold and foreign, like museum pieces from someone else's life.

"Just like our marriage—it's over." I stared at those pieces of what we used to be, my heartbeat growing fainter by the moment.

Once, this was our love nest. Now, it was just my solitary deathbed.

Through the haze of pain, I seemed to hear Theodore's excited voice: "Mrs. Blackwood, we totally nailed our first collaboration!"

That breakthrough moment came three years ago, just after I had secured that game-changing copyright deal for him. He burst into my office, ignoring that I was in the middle of a conference call, and kissed me directly. Then we opened champagne together, celebrating this project that would transform our destiny.

"Having the most badass entertainment lawyer in all of Los Angeles as my wife makes me the luckiest guy alive," he said, his eyes full of pride and love.

Back when we were just starting out, Theodore loved me as a person and respected my professional abilities. We were true partners—in love and in business.

But looking back now, perhaps even then he had already started calculating me as an asset.

The memories stretched back further still.

Five years ago, when Theodore first founded his talent agency, I leveraged all the connections from my top-tier law firm to pave his way. We attended the Oscars together, graced the cover of Variety magazine together, hailed as "Hollywood's Power Couple."

Every late night, we handled our respective major cases at home, serving as each other's think tank. He was proud of every case I won; I was excited about every star he signed. No matter how crazy busy we were, we felt fulfilled and happy.

"We're going to build an entertainment empire," he said when he proposed on Santa Monica Beach all those years ago, "as husband and wife, and as the ultimate business partnership."

Then came that harsh winter just last year, when I fell into a career crisis due to a major client's sexual harassment scandal.

All of Hollywood was buzzing with rumors that I had taken bribes to help that producer cover up his crimes. The California State Bar launched an investigation, and I faced the risk of losing my license.

That was the darkest moment of my life.

But Theodore dropped a fifty-million-dollar deal and spent entire nights helping me strategize our response.

"Evie, we're partners in everything," he said, holding my trembling hands. "Your fight is my fight."

He helped me get the best PR team, used every connection to clear my name. We successfully weathered the storm, and my career didn't just survive—it actually soared because of how brilliantly we handled the crisis.

It was precisely because we had been through hell together that the later betrayal cut so deep.

My consciousness began to drift, as if being pulled into another scene—Theodore in his Beverly Hills mansion study, rapidly deleting the final email I had sent.

He didn't read it completely, just skimmed a few lines before permanently trashing it. Then he hurriedly put on his custom suit, preparing to pick up Lydia for some industry mixer.

Before leaving, he was still on the phone saying: "Yeah, Eveline is... out of commission. But business goes on as usual."

I watched this scene with a bitter heart.

So in his mind, I was just another replaceable tool. When I stopped being useful, he cut me loose and went shopping for an upgrade.

In my final moment, I looked out again at the Pacific night view. Five years ago, Theodore had proposed to me on this very beach...