Chapter 124 Wouldn't It Be So Much Better If You Just Died Already?

Chapter 124 Wouldn't It Be So Much Better If You Just Died Already?
CHAPTER 124

Wouldn't It Be So Much Better If You Just Died Already?

The bedroom at the Lancaster mansion smelled faintly of lavender liniment and the clean linen sheets Johannah changed every morning.

Afternoon sun slanted through half-drawn blinds, striping the pale-blue walls in warm gold bars.

Vincent lay propped against pillows, his hand felt fragile in Anna’s—cool fingers, thin skin mapped with veins like delicate blue rivers.

He watched her with eyes that still held the same quiet pride they’d had when she was five and reciting multiplication tables for pocket change.

“You’re looking more beautiful these days,” he said softly.
A small, knowing smile tugged his mouth. “I don’t even need to ask if you’re happy. It’s written all over you in neon lights.”

Anna squeezed his hand, thumb brushing over his knuckles. “You’re right. I’m very, very happy.”

Vincent’s smile deepened. “I can tell. Never seen that particular glow on you before—like you finally found the right key and the door swung wide open.”

He lifted his free hand, cupping her cheek. Anna leaned into the touch instinctively, eyes fluttering half-closed.

“I’m content just seeing that smile on your face,” he murmured. “I could go peacefully tomorrow knowing you’re safe. Happy. Loved.”

“Don’t talk about death,” she said quickly, voice firm but trembling at the edges. “You’re going to live long enough to hold your grandchild. To carry him—or her—with your own two hands. I’m not letting you go anywhere.”

Vincent chuckled—weak, but real. “I know I’m not dying tomorrow, sweetheart. But…”

His gaze drifted to the framed photo on the nightstand:

Eleanor, young and laughing, arms around a baby Anna.

“I miss your mother. Every single day. I wish she could be here to see what a remarkable woman you’ve become.”

Anna’s throat tightened. “She wouldn’t want you leaving me alone in this world. Not yet. And I’m sure—absolutely sure—she’s at peace. Happy. Watching over us both from wherever she is.”

He raised his head slightly, pressing a slow kiss to her forehead. “You might still be my little girl, but you talk like a wise old woman who’s seen every season twice.”

“I mean it,” she whispered.

Vincent settled back, eyes shining.

“I’ll try my best to stay strong. For you. You’re the only precious thing left in this life that keeps the engine running.” His voice dropped, tender. “I love you more than my own breath, Anna.”

Tears spilled hot down her cheeks. She leaned forward and hugged him—carefully, fiercely. “I love you too, Dad. More than anything.”

He drifted off minutes later, breathing slow and even.

Anna stayed until the rhythm steadied, then slipped quietly from the room.

Downstairs the kitchen smelled of fresh coffee and the faint citrus of dish soap. Johannah stood at the sink, refilling the big glass water reservoir for the fridge dispenser.

She glanced up, startled. “Ma’am Anna—did you need something? I can—”

Anna waved both hands. “Don’t stop on my account. Take your time. I can grab whatever I need.”

Johannah nodded gratefully and continued pouring.

Anna leaned against the island. “How have you been?”

Johannah smiled—small, genuine. “Doing great, Ma’am Anna.”

Anna tilted her head, soft but pointed. “I’ve told you a hundred times—drop the ‘Ma’am.’

Just Anna. After everything we’ve been through together? You’ve seen me cry ugly tears at three a.m. over burnt toast. We’re past titles.”

Johannah gave a sheepish laugh. “Old habits die hard.”

She finished filling the reservoir, set the empty jug down, wiped her hands on a dish towel.

Anna’s voice gentled further. “How’s Miss Silvia doing?”

Johannah exhaled, shoulders dropping.

“Honestly? She still isn’t the same since Daisy passed.” Her eyes glistened. “She tries—God knows she tries—to act like her old self.

Laughs at the right moments, cooks Sunday dinner, asks about my day. But it’s… hollow.
Like someone hollowed out the middle of her and glued the shell back together.”

Tears slipped down Johannah’s cheeks. Her voice cracked. “It feels like a part of my mother died when Daisy did.”

Anna crossed the kitchen in two strides and pulled Johannah into a tight hug. Johannah stiffened for half a second—surprise—then melted against her, shoulders shaking.

“I won’t let anything happen to you or Miss Silvia,” Anna murmured into her hair.

“Anything you need—anything at all—don’t hesitate. Just say the word.”

Johannah sniffled against Anna’s shoulder. “Thank you, Anna. You’ve been so kind to me from the very first day.”

“We’ll keep praying,” Anna said quietly. “Keep believing there’ll be a change soon.”

Johannah nodded, wiping her eyes. “Yes. We will.”



Later that afternoon the black SUV purred through the Fairchild gates.

Elias opened Anna’s door; she stepped out into crisp autumn air that smelled faintly of woodsmoke and damp leaves.

Victor and Elias followed a respectful step behind as she headed inside.

Laughter—bright, female—drifted from the kitchen. Curious, Anna followed it.

She paused in the doorway.

Brandon stood at the island wearing a navy apron dusted with flour, shoulder-length hair scraped back into a messy ponytail.

His handsome face had white streaks across one cheek like war paint. He was talking animatedly to someone on his tablet propped against a mixing bowl.

He didn’t notice her at first—too engrossed in whatever recipe was being demonstrated.

Anna leaned against the doorframe, smiling softly.

Then the female voice again—clear, teasing.
Anna cleared her throat.

Brandon’s head snapped up. “Anna! When did you sneak in?”

“Just now,” she said, amused. “But you were pretty occupied with… other things.”

From the tablet Grace’s voice burst out. “Brandon—turn me around! I want to say hi to Ma’am Anna!”

He spun the tablet. Grace’s face filled the screen—grinning wide.
“Ma'am Anna! You’re back!”

“Grace!” Anna laughed. “Missed your face.”

Brandon turned the tablet back to himself, sheepish. “Before you grill me—Grace is just teaching me how to bake brownies. That’s all.”

Anna narrowed her eyes playfully. “Really? I never pegged you for the domestic type.”

He shrugged, charming as ever. “Mom requested brownies. Emilia’s not around, so delivery duty falls to me.” He flashed a grin.

“There’s a lot you still don’t know about me, Anna.”

She smiled brightly. Inside her head: I wonder what you’d do if you knew Emilia already spilled about the dick piercing.

The thought hit so unexpectedly she couldn’t hold back the snort-laugh that escaped.

Brandon’s brows shot up. “Why are you looking at me like that and laughing?”

“Nothing,” she managed, waving a hand. “Just remembered something hilarious.”

Mrs. Whitmore burst through the swinging door with Ivy and Tara in tow, arms full of linens.

“Good heavens, Brandon—what are you doing in my kitchen?” She stopped short. “This is no place for you, young man.”

Brandon untied the apron, wiping flour off his hands. “Grace is teaching me brownies.”

Mrs. Whitmore blinked. “Grace? Is she here? I don’t see her. Do I need to get my glasses checked again?”

Anna burst out laughing—genuine, delighted—at the older woman’s earnest confusion.

Mrs. Whitmore’s distance vision had always been hit-or-miss; anything farther than ten feet might as well be invisible.

Brandon turned the tablet toward her. Grace waved enthusiastically. “Hi, Mrs. Whitmore!”

The housekeeper’s face lit up.

“Oh! There you are.” She wagged a finger at Brandon. “You could’ve just said it was a video call, you rascal. Don’t let me stand here looking like I’ve lost my marbles in my own kitchen.”

Anna laughed harder.

Brandon grinned. “Noted.”

Anna caught her breath. “Are Camille and the girls back?”

“Not yet,” he said. “But I think Camille’s around somewhere.”

“I’ll go check on her.”

She turned and headed upstairs, footsteps soft on the carpeted treads, making a straight line for Daniel and Camille’s bedroom.

The door stood slightly ajar.

Anna pushed it open gently, peeking inside. “Camille? You in here?”

Silence—except for the steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor.

She stepped fully inside.

Her gaze locked on Daniel.

He lay motionless, pale, tubes snaking from his arms, chest rising and falling in mechanical rhythm.

Anna walked closer, slow, deliberate.
Her lips curved—cold, satisfied.

“Well, well, well,” she murmured, voice low and venomous. “Look how the mighty have fallen.”

She stopped beside the bed, staring down at him.

“You have no idea how much pleasure it gives me seeing you like this. Powerless. Silent. Knowing you’ll never hurt another soul again.”
She leaned closer.

“Last night I had the most vivid, satisfying dream. I had killed you… stabbed you—over and over—while you watched, helpless.

Couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. Then I threw every ugly, filthy word you ever said to me right back in your face until there was nothing left but blood and silence.”

Her fingers flexed at her sides.

“Ever since I woke up, I’ve been itching to make it real. The thought alone is intoxicating. Euphoric.”

She reached for the pillow beside his head, lifting it slowly.

“Wouldn’t it be so much better—so much easier—for everyone, especially Camille, if you just did the decent thing and died already?”
Her whisper was almost tender. “But since you’re taking your sweet time… I suppose I’ll have to help you along.”

She raised the pillow over his face.

From behind her—soft, shocked—Camille’s voice.

“Anna?”