Contract Marriage: I Will Never Love You Chapter 178: A Survivor

Marcus

I had imagined that seeing him in this condition would bring so sense of satisfaction.

Just look at him now... his skin is as pale as moonlight, his eyes glazed over like frosted glass, and his cheeks hollowed and worn. He is nothing more than an empty husk of a person now, a useless shell stripped of vitality and spirit.

You would think I’d feel sothing triumphant. But no. There’s just a sick weight in my gut.

He lays there, the slow drag of air through his nose like an engine refusing to die, while the mother who never protected any of us acts as if she’s dusting off a mantelpiece. I look at them, at the old quilt draped over his stick-thin legs, at the yellow pill organizers clustered on the nightstand, and mostly I just want to bolt.

But Rebecca’s here. She stands just in reach but doesn’t move to touch . Her presence anchors better than any bolt to the floor.

I turn to Natalie—back straight, chin up, the old family defiance soldered into her spine. She’s the first to speak.

"Doctor says it’s only a matter of days. Maybe a week if he’s stubborn." Her eyes flick to the bed as if to say, ’and of course he is.’ "He’s been asking for you."

"Has he," I say.

Mother speaks, her voice strained by years of pretending. "You ca ho," she says again.

I stare at her. "Not for him or you," is all I manage.

She flinches, like she’s been slapped.

"Marcus." His lips barely move, but I hear it clear as breaking bone.

I set my jaw and cross the room. Rebecca stays just outside, her eyes never leaving .

"You wanted to see ?" I say.

His head lolls my direction. It’s hard to tell if there’s anything left behind his gaze. "Didn’t...think you’d co." His voice is barely a shape in the air.

"But here I am," I reply, holding his stare with a blank coldness that feels fossilized.

He reaches out, a slow, trembling hand, paper-skinned and desperate. I let it hover in the gap between us.

"Sorry," he whispers. "Both of you. Everything I did."

Natalie utters a sound between a breath and a sob, but she doesn’t cry.

Our mother stands by the window, a fixed point of old pain, facing away. I have nothing to say to her. Not today.

I want to believe this is the part where reconciliation happens, or forgiveness is supposed to sprout, but I feel nothing except the old ache, the old storm, the old sketchy outlines of a father I never truly had.

"Do you?" I ask. "Are you actually sorry, or is this just what dying people say?"

For a second his face splits with sothing ugly, then collapses back into apology. "I... didn’t know how. To stop. I was wrong," he murmurs, but the words seem to float higher than the man who says them.

The room is silent for a long minute.

Rebecca stands by . She’s close enough that I can sense her, even though we’re not touching.

I swallow hard, eyes still on the man who used to loom so large in my nightmares. He looks so small now. Like if I blinked too hard, he might disappear entirely.

"You were wrong," I repeat, the words bitter on my tongue. "And now you’re dying, and I’m supposed to... what? Let go? Say I understand?"

His eyes flutter closed. Maybe from sha. Maybe exhaustion. I don’t care which.

"I’m not here to make peace," I say quietly, voice flat. "I’m here because I couldn’t resist the urge to watch you die."

A sharp intake of breath cuts through the silence—Natalie’s. But she doesn’t look at .

His lips twitch, a flicker of sothing like pain or recognition. "I deserve that," he croaks.

"You deserve worse," I say.

He doesn’t argue. He just lies there, shrinking into the mattress like he’s trying to disappear into it. Like he knows this is the last place he’ll ever be.

Rebecca’s hand finds my arm. A silent gesture. Not a reprimand—never that. Just a tether, sothing to stop from spiraling completely.

"I wanted to fix things," he says after a mont. The words tremble with a kind of pathetic hope, too weak to stand on their own. "Before it was too late."

"It is too late," I snap. And then quieter: "You can’t fix a lifeti in a breath, no matter how close to death you are."

He closes his eyes again.

I glance at Natalie, who’s staring down at him now, jaw tight but not cold.

Did she forgive them already?

I wonder if she did. If sowhere in all those years of burying her pain, she dug up sothing that looked enough like forgiveness to carry. Or maybe it’s not forgiveness at all. Maybe it’s resignation. Acceptance that the past won’t change, and the only power she has left is deciding how much of herself she still gives to it.

I don’t think I have that in .

"I’m not going to forgive you," I tell him.

He doesn’t answer right away—maybe he can’t, maybe he knows there’s nothing he can say that I’d believe. "I just..I ask you take care of your mother."

The words hit like a slap, sharp and undeserved.

Take care of your mother.

I stare at him, stunned—not by the request itself, but by the sheer audacity of it. Of him. Of all the things he could’ve said, all the people he could’ve asked about, her?

My voice cos out low, razor-thin. "You want to take care of her?"

His eyes flutter open again, hazy but pleading. "She’s...she tried."

I let out a bitter laugh, short and humorless. "She watched. While you tore us apart, she watched. While Natalie hid bruises and I stopped sleeping through the night, she just stood there. Don’t you dare ask to protect the woman who never once protected us."

I feel my mother’s presence stir sowhere near , but I don’t turn my head to look at her.

She doesn’t speak. Of course she doesn’t.

Not a denial. Not an apology. Just silence—the sa silence she gave us our entire childhood while he raged like a storm through the house.

I can feel her eyes on . I imagine she’s wearing that sa brittle expression she always wore in the aftermath: lips pressed thin, chin lifted like that made her brave. As if endurance and love were the sa thing.

"I used to dream she’d step between us," I say, my voice colder now. "Even just once. Just once, I wanted her to look at you and say, ’That’s enough.’ But she never did. She let it happen. She let you happen."

My father says nothing. His breaths are shallow now, ragged. There’s sweat gathering at his temples.

"I’m not the caretaker here," I add, softer, but no less final. "Not for her. Not for you. You want comfort? You should’ve been soone worth mourning."

Natalie’s voice cuts in at last, raw but steady. "We took care of each other. That’s how we survived."

I et her eyes. She gives the smallest nod. She’s not angry. She’s not broken. She’s just... done.

Maybe we both are.

"Well, this was fun. But I will be leaving now. let’s go, Rebecca."

Rebecca doesn’t say a word. She just steps in beside , silent as ever, the warmth of her presence grounding in a way nothing else in this house ever has.

As I turn toward the door, I glance back one last ti. Not at him. Not at her.

At Natalie.

She’s still standing by the bed, eyes glassy but spine straight. A survivor, like . Like we always had to be.

"You coming?" I ask.

She hesitates. Then: "In a minute."

I nod once. I don’t need to understand. I just need to get out.

Marcus

I had imagined that seeing him in this condition would bring so sense of satisfaction.

Just look at him now... his skin is as pale as moonlight, his eyes glazed over like frosted glass, and his cheeks hollowed and worn. He is nothing more than an empty husk of a person now, a useless shell stripped of vitality and spirit.

You would think I’d feel sothing triumphant. But no. There’s just a sick weight in my gut.

He lays there, the slow drag of air through his nose like an engine refusing to die, while the mother who never protected any of us acts as if she’s dusting off a mantelpiece. I look at them, at the old quilt draped over his stick-thin legs, at the yellow pill organizers clustered on the nightstand, and mostly I just want to bolt.

But Rebecca’s here. She stands just in reach but doesn’t move to touch . Her presence anchors better than any bolt to the floor.

I turn to Natalie—back straight, chin up, the old family defiance soldered into her spine. She’s the first to speak.

"Doctor says it’s only a matter of days. Maybe a week if he’s stubborn." Her eyes flick to the bed as if to say, ’and of course he is.’ "He’s been asking for you."

"Has he," I say.

Mother speaks, her voice strained by years of pretending. "You ca ho," she says again.

I stare at her. "Not for him or you," is all I manage.

She flinches, like she’s been slapped.

"Marcus." His lips barely move, but I hear it clear as breaking bone.

I set my jaw and cross the room. Rebecca stays just outside, her eyes never leaving .

"You wanted to see ?" I say.

His head lolls my direction. It’s hard to tell if there’s anything left behind his gaze. "Didn’t...think you’d co." His voice is barely a shape in the air.

"But here I am," I reply, holding his stare with a blank coldness that feels fossilized.

He reaches out, a slow, trembling hand, paper-skinned and desperate. I let it hover in the gap between us.

"Sorry," he whispers. "Both of you. Everything I did."

Natalie utters a sound between a breath and a sob, but she doesn’t cry.

Our mother stands by the window, a fixed point of old pain, facing away. I have nothing to say to her. Not today.

I want to believe this is the part where reconciliation happens, or forgiveness is supposed to sprout, but I feel nothing except the old ache, the old storm, the old sketchy outlines of a father I never truly had.

"Do you?" I ask. "Are you actually sorry, or is this just what dying people say?"

For a second his face splits with sothing ugly, then collapses back into apology. "I... didn’t know how. To stop. I was wrong," he murmurs, but the words seem to float higher than the man who says them.

The room is silent for a long minute.

Rebecca stands by . She’s close enough that I can sense her, even though we’re not touching.

I swallow hard, eyes still on the man who used to loom so large in my nightmares. He looks so small now. Like if I blinked too hard, he might disappear entirely.

"You were wrong," I repeat, the words bitter on my tongue. "And now you’re dying, and I’m supposed to... what? Let go? Say I understand?"

His eyes flutter closed. Maybe from sha. Maybe exhaustion. I don’t care which.

"I’m not here to make peace," I say quietly, voice flat. "I’m here because I couldn’t resist the urge to watch you die."

A sharp intake of breath cuts through the silence—Natalie’s. But she doesn’t look at .

His lips twitch, a flicker of sothing like pain or recognition. "I deserve that," he croaks.

"You deserve worse," I say.

He doesn’t argue. He just lies there, shrinking into the mattress like he’s trying to disappear into it. Like he knows this is the last place he’ll ever be.

Rebecca’s hand finds my arm. A silent gesture. Not a reprimand—never that. Just a tether, sothing to stop from spiraling completely.

"I wanted to fix things," he says after a mont. The words tremble with a kind of pathetic hope, too weak to stand on their own. "Before it was too late."

"It is too late," I snap. And then quieter: "You can’t fix a lifeti in a breath, no matter how close to death you are."

He closes his eyes again.

I glance at Natalie, who’s staring down at him now, jaw tight but not cold.

Did she forgive them already?

I wonder if she did. If sowhere in all those years of burying her pain, she dug up sothing that looked enough like forgiveness to carry. Or maybe it’s not forgiveness at all. Maybe it’s resignation. Acceptance that the past won’t change, and the only power she has left is deciding how much of herself she still gives to it.

I don’t think I have that in .

"I’m not going to forgive you," I tell him.

He doesn’t answer right away—maybe he can’t, maybe he knows there’s nothing he can say that I’d believe. "I just..I ask you take care of your mother."

The words hit like a slap, sharp and undeserved.

Take care of your mother.

I stare at him, stunned—not by the request itself, but by the sheer audacity of it. Of him. Of all the things he could’ve said, all the people he could’ve asked about, her?

My voice cos out low, razor-thin. "You want to take care of her?"

His eyes flutter open again, hazy but pleading. "She’s...she tried."

I let out a bitter laugh, short and humorless. "She watched. While you tore us apart, she watched. While Natalie hid bruises and I stopped sleeping through the night, she just stood there. Don’t you dare ask to protect the woman who never once protected us."

I feel my mother’s presence stir sowhere near , but I don’t turn my head to look at her.

She doesn’t speak. Of course she doesn’t.

Not a denial. Not an apology. Just silence—the sa silence she gave us our entire childhood while he raged like a storm through the house.

I can feel her eyes on . I imagine she’s wearing that sa brittle expression she always wore in the aftermath: lips pressed thin, chin lifted like that made her brave. As if endurance and love were the sa thing.

"I used to dream she’d step between us," I say, my voice colder now. "Even just once. Just once, I wanted her to look at you and say, ’That’s enough.’ But she never did. She let it happen. She let you happen."

My father says nothing. His breaths are shallow now, ragged. There’s sweat gathering at his temples.

"I’m not the caretaker here," I add, softer, but no less final. "Not for her. Not for you. You want comfort? You should’ve been soone worth mourning."

Natalie’s voice cuts in at last, raw but steady. "We took care of each other. That’s how we survived."

I et her eyes. She gives the smallest nod. She’s not angry. She’s not broken. She’s just... done.

Maybe we both are.

"Well, this was fun. But I will be leaving now. let’s go, Rebecca."

Rebecca doesn’t say a word. She just steps in beside , silent as ever, the warmth of her presence grounding in a way nothing else in this house ever has.

As I turn toward the door, I glance back one last ti. Not at him. Not at her.

At Natalie.

She’s still standing by the bed, eyes glassy but spine straight. A survivor, like . Like we always had to be.

"You coming?" I ask.

She hesitates. Then: "In a minute."

I nod once. I don’t need to understand. I just need to get out.