Marrying His Uncle

"Uncle Matt, yes, I will marry you."

I lay on the hospital bed, phone pressed to my ear, my other hand limp at my side as my vacant eyes lingered on the bloodstained bandages around my wrist.

How many times had I tried to end my life? I could no longer remember. All I knew was that whenever the waves of despair came crashing down, I felt no desire to keep on living.

On the other end of the line, Matt Harlem corrected me, "Audrey, I am John's uncle, not yours. You should call me 'Matt.' Or, 'honey'."

At the sound of John Harlem's name, something inside me snapped like a rubber band, a sudden ache I was powerless to defend against.

John was the guy I had loved for years.

From the moment I could remember, we had always been together. Back then, I was still the cherished heiress of the Gray family, and he was the boy next door. We spent every day in each other's company, like childhood sweethearts without a care in the world.

Even later, when the true heiress Samantha Gray returned and I was cast out, John didn't abandon me. He took me in, sheltered me, and from then on, he became the most important person in my life.

But now, I had chosen to let him go.

Obediently, I whispered, "Matt."

Only then did Matt let out a satisfied laugh. "Good girl. I'll see you in a week."

"Yes," I murmured. "See you then."

The moment the words left my lips, a tall, elegant figure stepped into the room. I saw who it was and instantly hung up the call.

John stood at the door, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit that made him look every inch the dignified heir. The man with the proud, straight back bore no trace of the despair and weakness he once carried in his wheelchair.

His eyes narrowed. "Who are you meeting?"

My tone was cold. "An old friend."

His brows drew tighter. He knew my world as well as his own. All these years, I had revolved solely around him. I had no friends—never had.

He was about to press further, but when he saw the indifference in my face, the words shifted.

His voice dropped, sharp as ice. "Tell me, was slitting your wrists fun?"

The coldness dragged me back to last night.

I had told him I wanted to move out of the villa. He refused. Instead, he locked me in the bedroom, demanding I reflect on my so-called mistakes.

But what mistake had I made? All I wanted was to leave him—to wean myself off the feelings I could no longer bear.

The violent surge of emotion triggered my depression, and in that haze, I slit my wrist. At that moment, I truly wanted to die.

But John misunderstood.

He thought I was using my life as a bargaining chip to make him feel guilty. So, although he rushed me to the hospital, he gave the doctor a cruel instruction.

"When you stitch her up, don't use anesthesia. I want her to remember this pain."

He knew I feared pain more than anything. Yet he watched, expressionless, as I was pinned down like cattle for slaughter, screaming under the stab of needle and thread.

The memory stabbed through me now. My body shuddered uncontrollably, and when I looked at him, fear clouded my eyes.

For a split second, surprise flickered across his face. But it was quickly replaced by fury.

His fist crashed onto the bed beside me. The gust of force grazed my ear and left a burning sting.

He ground his teeth. "Still pretending to be pitiful? Let me tell you, because of your little stunt, Samantha nearly broke up with me. She said she couldn't bear the thought of you hurting yourself—that if anything happened to you, she'd feel guilty for the rest of her life.

"She's that kind, that softhearted. And you… how dare you stoop to such vile tactics just to drag me away from her?"

Once, if he had said this, I would have screamed until my voice broke, begging him to see the truth—that Samantha was a hypocrite, a vain and ungrateful woman hiding behind a gentle mask.

But now, I finally understood. John loved her. And because he loved her, he trusted her without question… just as I had once trusted him.

I forced a small smile, obedient as ever. "I was the one who couldn't let go. But don't worry, I've figured it out. I'll apologize to Samantha, and tell her I've given up on you."

I thought those words would delight him. Yet instead, he stared at me as though struck dumb, shock flickering in his eyes.

After a long silence, he finally said with a hint of relief, "It's good you've found your place."

But before the air could settle, a syrupy voice drifted from outside, "Johnny, I'm ready."

At once, his coldness melted into tenderness. He turned, walking toward Samantha with unhurried grace. "Why didn't you wait over there? Does your finger still hurt?"

She leaned into his arms, a small bandage wrapped around her finger.

"It's nothing," she pouted. "Just a tiny cut. You worried too much. The doctor even teased me—said if we'd come any later, the wound would've healed on its own."

"To me, anything that concerns you is never a small matter," John said with solemn care.

Samantha smiled sweetly at his words. Yet when her eyes flicked toward me on the hospital bed, her lips trembled with feigned grievance.

"Maybe I shouldn't have come in. Audrey must be upset to see me again."