Chapter Eleven: Declare Me Dead

She turned her head toward him.

“Chris.”

He looked up immediately. Too fast. Like he’d been afraid she’d change her mind.

“I need you to declare me dead.”

The words landed cleanly. No shaking. No hesitation.

Chris stared at her.

“What?”

She didn’t look away. “I need you to make it public. Say I didn’t make it. That I died from the injuries.”

His mouth opened, then closed again. He leaned back slightly, like she’d reached out and shoved him.

“No,” he said. “No, that’s—Iris, that’s insane.”

“Mia,” she corrected quietly.

His jaw tightened. “Whatever name you want to use. I’m not doing that.”

She inhaled slowly, carefully. Every breath still felt like a negotiation.

“You have to,” she said.

“I absolutely do not.”

“You do.”

“No,” he repeated, firmer this time. “I won’t lie about you being dead. Do you have any idea what that means?”

“Yes.”

“You’re asking me to erase you.”

She smiled faintly. Not happy. Not sad. Just… certain. “I’m asking you to protect me.”

“By killing you off?”

“By letting me disappear.”

He stood abruptly, pacing once, then again. His hands ran through his hair, fingers tugging hard at the roots.

“Talk to me,” he said. “Because right now, this sounds like panic. And I don’t make life-altering decisions based on panic.”

Mia shifted slightly against the pillows, wincing before she could stop herself. She ignored the pain.

“You didn’t see his face,” she said.

Chris stopped moving. “Whose.”

“My husband’s,” she replied. “When he told me he was done.”

That got his attention. His shoulders lowered just a fraction.

“He didn’t look angry,” she went on. “Or guilty. Or even relieved. He looked bored. Like I was a problem he’d finally outsourced.”

“Iris—”

“I loved him,” she said softly. “I loved him enough to disappear inside that marriage. Enough to make myself smaller every year so he’d have more room.”

Chris swallowed.

“And when I finally left,” she continued, “when I actually walked away, he didn’t come after me. He didn’t call. He didn’t show up. He didn’t even ask.”

Her eyes burned, but she didn’t let the tears fall.

“So no,” she said. “This isn’t panic. This is clarity.”

Chris shook his head slowly. “You’re hurt. You’re exhausted. You almost lost the baby. You almost—” His voice broke, just slightly. He cleared his throat. “You don’t get to decide something like this right now.”

“I already did.”

He turned back to her. “Why?”

She exhaled. “Because if the world thinks I’m gone, no one will look for me.”

“And that’s what you want?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She hesitated then. Just a beat too long.

“Because I don’t want to be dragged back,” she said finally. “I don’t want lawyers. Or pity. Or explanations. I don’t want him standing over my hospital bed pretending to care because it looks good.”

Chris’s voice dropped. “He wouldn’t—”

“He would,” she cut in. “And even if he didn’t, the damage is already done.”

She looked down at her stomach, her hand drifting there unconsciously.

“This child doesn’t need that man,” she said. “Doesn’t need his name. His indifference. His ability to walk away without consequence.”

Chris stared at her. “And you think declaring you dead fixes that?”

“It frees me,” she said. “It gives me control.”

Silence stretched between them.

“You’re asking me to lie to the world,” he said quietly. “To your family. To your friends.”

“You have done it once. And besides they already don’t see me,” she replied. “This just makes it official.”

He laughed once, sharply. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You always said I was dramatic.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I wasn’t being asked to bury you. Again.”

She looked at him then, really looked. At the tension in his jaw. The faint tremor in his hands. The way his eyes had gone glassy without spilling anything.

“You’re afraid,” she said.

“Yes,” he shot back. “Because this sounds like running.”

She shook her head. “It sounds like survival.”

They stared at each other, years sitting heavy in the space between them. History. Unfinished conversations. All the ways they’d failed each other quietly.

“I won’t do it,” Chris said finally. “I won’t tell the world you’re dead. Not again.”

Her throat tightened. “Why?”

“Because you’re not,” he said. “Because you’re right here. Because I can see you breathing.”

“And tomorrow,” she said softly, “I’ll be gone.”

He didn’t answer that.

The door opened then, interrupting them like the room itself had decided it couldn’t hold this conversation any longer.

Two doctors stepped inside, faces professional, voices careful.

“We wanted to update you,” one of them said. “Transport has been arranged. You’ll be leaving for England first thing tomorrow morning.”

Mia nodded. “Okay.”

Chris forced himself to speak. “I’ll make the arrangements,” he said. “Flights. Documents. Everything.”

The doctors nodded and left as quietly as they’d come.

Chris grabbed his jacket from the chair.

“I need to go make calls,” he said, already moving toward the door.

Mia watched him take each step away from her bed. Every inch of distance felt heavier than the last.

“Chris.”

He stopped at the door but didn’t turn.

“Do it,” she said.

His hand tightened on the handle.

“Please.”

For a moment, she thought he might answer. Thought he might argue one last time. Thought he might turn around and tell her she was wrong and he loved her too much to let her disappear.

He didn’t.

He opened the door and walked out.

The click of it closing sounded final.

Mia stared at the empty doorway long after he was gone, her chest aching in ways medicine couldn’t touch.

Tomorrow, she would leave the country.

Tonight, she let herself grieve the man who might still choose not to erase her.

And the man who already had.