My Wife Only Loved Me After Death

Zac's POV

On my 28th birthday, I spent the entire day waiting for my wife, Abbie Johnson.

The candle on my cake had long burned out, its wax melted over the frosting into a sticky, unappetizing mess.

"Happy birthday, Zac," I muttered, staring down at the sawdust on the floor.

I broke off a small piece of cake and stuck it in my mouth, but it was too hard to swallow, so I spat it straight into the scrap bin nearby.

My eyes drifted back to the burnt stub of the candle.

My phone screen flickered on and off, but not a single notification came through.

Scrolling through Instagram, I saw a rehearsal group photo posted by one of Abbie's colleagues. She stood right in the center with a subtle smile on her face, but her eyes were looking off somewhere past the camera.

I shut my phone off and poured myself a glass of plum wine.

Late into the night, just as the wind began to pick up, the wooden door finally creaked open.

Abbie stood backlit in the doorway, carrying the heavy scent of stage makeup from the theater.

Glass in hand, I walked over to greet her. I kept my voice soft and gentle. "Welcome back."

She didn't even look at me. Her eyes landed straight on the bottle beside me, and she frowned. "Drinking again? Don't you have work to do?"

I swirled the remaining liquid in my glass and forced a dry smile. "What's wrong with drinking? Anything that takes the edge off is real work in my book."

I lifted the glass toward her lips. "Brewed it back in spring. It's sweet. Want a sip?"

Abbie slapped my hand away so hard that half the drink spilled all over my work clothes, soaking through in a dark stain.

"If you're drunk, go to sleep. Don't start with me." She threw the words over her shoulder and turned for the stairs.

"It's my birthday today," I said to her retreating back.

Abbie paused mid-step.

When she glanced back, her gaze softened for a split second—so fast it almost felt like a hallucination—before snapping right back into her usual cold stance.

"You forgot." I let out a light laugh. "It's fine."

I leaned down, pulled a printed document from the very bottom drawer of my workbench, and set it on the old wooden table right in front of her.

Printed across the cover in bold black letters were the words "Johnson Folk Music & Elliott Luthiery Collaboration Termination Agreement".

"Happy birthday to me. Consider this my gift to you," I said.

Abbie stared down at the paper for a long time.

Long enough that I thought she might actually say something, but when she finally raised her eyes, her tone was as flat as ice. "What kind of scene are you trying to pull this time?"

Leaning back against the edge of the workbench, I looked down at my sawdust-covered hands.

The thick calluses on my knuckles were hard, each one carved into my skin by five years of chiseling.

Yet in all those five years, Abbie had never truly looked at these hands once.

"Our families forced us together five years ago just for business. I know it's been miserable for you."

I looked up into her eyes. "I know Ivan's the one you've always wanted. Sign the papers and go to him. Nobody's stopping you anymore."

Abbie pressed her lips into a tight line, her jaw clenching hard.

She reached for the document. Her fingers froze for a fraction of a second when she touched the paper before pulling it over.

I took a step forward, leaned down, and pressed my cold lips gently against her forehead.

She smelled of the bitter winter air outside, sharp and chilly. I closed my eyes and spoke in a barely audible whisper. "Trapping you here for five years was unfair to you. Go find Ivan now. No one is holding you back."

Her body stiffened noticeably.

Stepping back, I took out the rings we had worn for five years and placed them gently on top of the document beside her hand.

She glanced down at the rings, still carrying the warmth of our skin, and the brief look of shock in her eyes was instantly swallowed up by deep disgust. "Still playing these mind games?"