Reiju Vinsmoke Death

When I was eight months pregnant, my husband's foster sister invited me to hike a snow-covered mountain. Midway up, an avalanche hit. We were both buried. My husband rushed to the scene, but before I could utter a word, his sister accused me: "She planned this! She tricked me into coming today!" I tried desperately to explain. He didn't listen. Instead, he lashed out at me. "Sandra doesn't know any better, but you should! So what if she's blunt? Is this your petty revenge? Your pathetic life couldn't even begin to repay hers if she'd been hurt!" Then he left. Took her hand. Walked away. I screamed after him, begging him to save our baby. He didn't even glance back. Worse, he unhooked my safety harness and shoved me out of the rescue group. "Since you're so clever, find your own way down." Not long after, another avalanche hit. This time, I couldn't get back up. Three hours later, Sandra was in a car accident. She needed a blood transfusion. That's when he finally thought of me. But by then, he didn't know—I was already gone. Me, and the child I'd never hold, were still buried under the snow.

I was locked in the cellar by my triplet alpha brothers after my stepsister, Elsa, framed me for killing her wolf by giving her an almond cake. The exit was secured with silver chains, and my wolf howled and begged them to release me. But my three alpha brothers refused. Alpha Kane, the eldest, growled, "You wicked she-wolf! You knew she was allergic to nuts, yet you deliberately gave her an almond cake to suffocate her! Don't you know it could fatally harm her wolf? You must stay here and reflect on what you've done!" Alpha Kelvin, the second, and Alpha Karl, the third, mocked, "What a despicable wolf you are! Still making excuses instead of facing the truth. Stay here and suffer what you deserve!" After that, they shifted into their wolves and took the trembling Elsa to the werewolf infirmary. Meanwhile, I struggled to breathe as the air in the cellar was filled with silver dust. My wolf howled in agony, but it was useless. Eventually, I died there. It wasn't until three days later—after they brought Elsa back from the infirmary—that I finally crossed their minds again. But by then, they didn't know—I was already dead in that silver-dust-filled cellar.

I’d just wrapped up a short trip with my daughter, Elara. On the way back, I figured I’d swing by the Hale, our family’s casino, to check in on my son, Cassian. Maybe grab dinner together. I didn’t expect to be mistaken for his latest fling. Correction: not mistaken—accused. Violently. “You think you can just waltz in here like some queen?” she hissed. “I’m the woman Cassian loves! What kind of whore are you? And is this your bastard daughter with him?” She locked us in the basement. No phone. No light. Just concrete walls and the stench of mildew and madness. Then came the fists. She slapped me across the face—again and again—until my skin stung and my ears rang. When that didn’t satisfy her, she pulled a gun and aimed low. The bullet tore through my knee. I bit back a scream, shielding Elara with my body. “You need to die, whore,” she spat. One of her men hesitated, “We should at least tell Mr. Hale first. If we are going to kill these two in his casino.” Lila of course said no. But that man brought Cassian anyway. My son stepped into this dark little room like it was any other Tuesday—until he saw me. His whole body went still. The blood drained from his face. And then, in the smallest, most broken voice I’d ever heard from him, he whispered, “Mom? What are you doing in my basement?”

My boyfriend's childhood sweetheart was diagnosed with a heart condition. To force me to save her, he hurt my brother and drove my mom to take her own life. He sneered at me, his voice full of venom. "Della, let’s see how long you can hold out!" However, later, one of his subordinates uncovered the truth about me. "Mr. Finley, Miss Jensen—she... she died trying to save you."

After being forced to give my wife's first love my heart, I died in the hallway of the private hospital she had personally founded. My six-year-old son, Ash, had already begged her thrice by the time I had drawn my last breath. The first time was when he tugged on her hand, saying I was coughing up blood. Sneering, she claimed, "So he's finally learned something—teaching his kid how to lie." Then, she had the bodyguards throw him out of the room. The second time was when he clung to her sleeve, insisting that I rambled nonsense due to the pain. "It's just a heart transplant," she opined with a frown. "The doctor already said he won't die." At that, the bodyguards stepped in again and dragged him away. The third time was when he fell to the ground, clutching her pant leg with all his strength, crying that I had already passed out. She finally lost her temper by this point, grabbing Ash by the throat and hurling him out of the room. "I have already said it—Howard isn't going to die. Dare to disturb Skye's rest again, and I'll throw both of you out of this hospital," she warned. To save me, my son pawned the most precious thing he owned—his St. Christopher medal—to a nurse. "Ma'am," he said. "I don't need to live a long life. I just want my dad to live." She accepted the medal and was about to arrange for me to be transferred to the last available room. However, my wife's first love, Skye Whitley, had someone block the doorway with his pet dog. He mentioned, "Sorry, kid. Your mom's worried I'll get bored if I can't see my dog. This room is reserved for him."

My mother, Winona Barlowe, who was the medical director at the hospital, decided to let my intern sister, Mia Barlowe, practice her skills by performing a brain tumor surgery on me. I begged my mother to assign another doctor since it was my only chance at survival. She slapped me across the face and cried out, "How did I ever give birth to a selfish girl like you? Mia just started her internship. Can’t you give her the chance to practice?" When I died from the botched surgery, she turned gray overnight.

Everyone in the Titanus region would have heard the older generation tell them this—during sky burials, the vultures wouldn't eat the corpses of people who'd committed heinous crimes. My husband is the sky burial practitioner who buries me. The vultures circle my corpse in the air above the burial site, but they don't prey on me. My husband frowns at the sight. "It looks like this person must have committed crimes when alive. They deserve this." Suddenly, I remembered him pointing at me, his eyes ablaze with flames of rage as he shouted, "Nancy wouldn't have lost her baby if not for you! Someone like you doesn't even deserve to get a sky burial!" It looks like his words are coming true. But later, he falls to his knees before my grave and weeps. He begs me to forgive him.

When I was in the terminal stage of renal disease, my wife gave the kidney that was most compatible with me to my brother. I rejected the doctor’s suggestion to continue waiting for a new kidney and got discharged early. My heart had frozen over. There was no point in holding on anymore. I gave the wealth that I had accumulated over the years to my brother, and my parents finally smiled at me. My wife tirelessly wanted to take good care of my brother. I did not get angry. Instead, I even asked her to be more attentive to his needs. Even when my daughter wanted my brother to be her father, I agreed with a smile. Everything had turned out exactly as they had hoped. Why were they feeling regret?

Just for brushing against the hem of Eva Lawson, the heiress’s custom couture gown, Lucy Quinn's mother had her limbs broken, then thrown into the sea to die. The day Lucy dragged the arrogant heiress to court she thought that justice might finally be served. Eva was declared not guilty. Why? Because the defense attorney representing her was none other than Wyatt Grant, founder of the most untouchable law firm in River City, and Lucy Quinn’s husband. When the trial ended, the elegant and aloof man stepped down from the defense table and placed an apology letter in front of Lucy. "Lulu, sign it. You don’t want to be sued for defamation and end up in prison, do you?" His tone was calm and coaxing, but behind the lenses of his gold-rimmed glasses, his gaze was cold as ice. Lucy, tears stubbornly clinging to her eyes, looked up at him and said with a trembling voice, "Why, Wyatt, Why?"

My fiancé, Keith Odell is a hot air balloon pilot. His first love, Michelle Lavigne, insisted on taking a risk and flying to a thousand meters above ground when the balloon’s helium began to leak.  In that moment of crisis, Keith grabbed the tandem parachute and leaped with her.  With tears in my eyes, I begged him, “I'm pregnant with your child. Can’t you take me first?” But he reproached me. “Is this really the time to fake your pregnancy because of a bit of jealousy? You learned how to skydive but Chelle is afraid of heights. We’ll wait for you on the ground.” Then he forcibly shook off my hand and parachuted down with his first love.  He failed to notice the hole in the only parachute he left me. Michelle had deliberately done it.  Carrying our unborn child, I closed my eyes and leaped.