My Last Wish

I have had a massive crush on Yannick Jordan for ten years, from my awkward teenage years until my adulthood.

He lived in the villa next door. I watched him go from a bright-eyed kid to a man dressed in a sharp suit with a deep voice and smoldering looks.

I was hopelessly in love with him, but I never told him.

What if I did and he rejected me? That would be game over.

Then, ten days ago, I passed out at work and woke up in a hospital. The doctor gave me a pitying look and said, "It's late-stage brain cancer. It’s too late to treat."

Just like that, my expiration date was stamped. I was not ready to die. I had not traveled the world yet. I hadn't even slept with Yannick yet!

And then I was reminded of the kind of stories I had been binge-reading lately. You know, the ones where the possessive, obsessive love interest refused to let the protagonist go. I was going to die anyway. A little recklessness would not kill me any faster, right? So, I called Yannick and invited him over for dinner.

He was the CEO of Jordan Group, which meant that he was super rich and insanely busy. But he still agreed to come.

When he showed up, he looked like he had just stepped off the cover of a billionaire romance novel. He wore a long black coat and had tired eyes, his entire being exuding an effortless cool.

That was when I realized he had been overseas when I called. He had been on the plane for an entire day before walking straight into my little scheme.

Suddenly, I felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe I should just let him go.

But before I could say a word, he strode over to the dining table, sat down, and started eating. I watched as he drank the clam chowder that I had, uh, "doctored" a little.

He raised an eyebrow at me mid-sip. "It’s been a while. Your cooking has improved."

Yeah, no kidding.

Because it was takeout from the best restaurant in town.

Why takeout?

Because if I had cooked, it would've been so bad he wouldn't eat enough for my plan to work.

By the time I grabbed a bowl from the kitchen, he was already looking a little woozy.

I bit my lip. "Tired? Want to lie down?"

He nodded. "I'm a little dizzy."

"Take a rest, then."

We had known each other forever, so trust was not an issue. Hence, he followed me to the guest room without a second thought.

…

Yannick was out cold.

I struggled to peel off his coat, my fingers brushing against the crisp white fabric of his dress shirt. Beneath it, I could just barely make out the contours of his body. I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry as my pulse hammered against my ribs.

But in the end, I lost my nerve.

Instead, I rummaged through my closet and pulled out a collection of silk ties—ones I had bought for him over the years but never dared to give him. Well, tonight, they were finally going to serve a purpose.

Carefully, I wrapped them around his wrists and ankles, securing him to the bed. By the time I was done, exhaustion hit me, and I collapsed onto the edge of the mattress.

I lifted my gaze. I saw that Yannick’s face was calm, his breathing steady. Right now, he looked so peaceful.

But I knew that the moment he woke up, he would be furious.

Just like the last time when his mother casually suggested that we should just get married, he was annoyed.

I let my eyes linger on his face, memorizing every detail. I did not have much time left. In a few days, I would not get to see him ever again.

I had spent my whole life being good and selfless. But now, at the very end of it, I wanted to be selfish just this once—even if he ended up hating me. Maybe that would be better. If he hated me, then he wouldn't be as sad when I was gone.

His phone started buzzing from inside his coat pocket. It was his assistant, Jason Lindell.

I hesitated for only a second before answering.

"Yannick’s exhausted," I said, keeping my voice casual. "He was knocked out after eating."

Jason got the hint and hung up.

My eyelids were getting heavier by the second.

Screw it.

I climbed into bed, wrapped my arms around Yannick’s waist, and let sleep take me.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up to an angry roar.

"Yulia Quincy!"

I bolted upright. The sudden movement sent a rush of dizziness through me, and my vision blacked out for a second. I lost my balance and fell straight onto him.

"Yulia Quincy! What are you doing?!"

I blinked up at him, still groggy.

"You tell me," I said, my voice thick with sleep.

Yannick’s jaw clenched, his expression dark with fury. Ignoring him, I sat on the bed and locked eyes with him.

"Well," I said, tilting my head. "Since you’re awake, we might as well get into business."

Yannick’s brows furrowed, his muscles flexing as he tried to free himself.