His Regret After Live Streaming My Detox

Summary

Three years with terminal bone cancer.

The ex I'd "abandoned"—now a detective—stormed into my apartment as I reached for morphine just to stay upright.

He watched, coldly sneering, as I shook on the floor. "Seven years, and you're a junkie now? Where's that gold-digger pride?"

Trembling, I pointed. "Please… the medicine."

Vincent laughed, snatched the bottle, and flushed it all. "Want it? Go to rehab."

Looming over me, he added, "Seems when you ran off, your bones rotted too."

Agony ripped through me; I curled up, shaking. "Am I… going to die?"