Cold to the Touch: My Husband Thought I Was Faking

On our tenth anniversary Christmas Eve, Declan finally decided to love me. He caught a flight just to make it home for the holidays.

He even brought that designer bag I obsessed over for months. Even our son, Finn, stopped throwing tantrums. For once, he didn't beg for "Aunt Kendall" to step in as his mom.

But I felt nothing. I floated near the ceiling, totally hollow. Declan mistook my absolute stillness for sleep.

He draped a heavy blanket over my shoulders. "Asleep already?" he muttered. "You shouldn't force yourself to cook the whole holiday dinner if you feel sick." He didn't know.

My body shut down from the inside out right after I gave him my kidney. A brutal spasm ripped through my chest the second I pulled the roast from the oven.

I collapsed onto the couch just to catch my breath. I never woke up. I froze right there.

Yet Kendall—Declan's assistant—forced tears into her eyes. "Isla just texted me." Kendall choked out the words, playing the victim flawlessly. "She says she hates looking at me.

She told me to get out. I should just go." Finn widened his eyes. He grabbed Kendall's hand and anchored her to the spot. Declan stared down at my silent, still body.

The brief softness in his eyes hardened into sharp anger. His jaw ticked. "Isla, stop acting." He scoffed. "Kendall just works here.

Can't you take the high road for once?" I already died on that couch. A literal corpse, absorbing my husband's insults as he defended another woman all night.

It took two whole days for his perfect illusion to shatter completely. Chapter 1 I hovered there, watching Declan, Kendall, and Finn cluster in the entryway.

They looked exactly like a pictureperfect, nuclear family. Declan caught the acrid scent of burning metal wafting from the kitchen. His brow furrowed.

He marched over and snapped the burner off. The heavy Dutch oven I'd set up for the holiday roast had completely boiled dry.

The enamel bottom glowed a furious, toxic red. "She's getting completely out of hand," he muttered under his breath. But then he turned.

His gaze landed on my motionless body curled on the sofa. The anger in his eyes faded into a heavy ache.

He closed the distance between us, his footsteps muffled against the hardwood. He reached out, fully intending to shake my shoulder and wake me up.

Then he saw the deep, bruisedpurple exhaustion sinking into the skin under my eyes. His hand froze in midair.

Instead, he snatched the woven throw blanket off the armrest and draped it over me. "Whatever.

Let her sleep," he whispered. "Her health is just getting worse." A phantom, icy spasm ripped through my chest. Even in death, that careless pity stung.

Finn dropped his backpack on the floor. He jogged over and shoved my shoulder. "Mom, I'm home." I couldn't answer him. Declan stepped out onto the balcony to take a phone call.

The second the glass door slid shut, Kendall moved.

She snatched Finn's wrist, dragging him away from my body. "Be a good boy, Finn," Kendall cooed, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "Your mom is exhausted. Let her rest.

Why don't you go unpack your bag?" She ushered my son down the hall. Then, it was just the two of us. Kendall's lips curled into a smirk.

She lunged forward and dug my phone out from the cracks of the sofa cushions. She swiped up, bypassing the lock screen in a second. Of course she knew my passcode.

It was Declan’s birthday. Her thumbs flew across the keyboard, drafting a scheduled text to her own number. But faking a message wasn't enough for her.

Kendall stalked over to the bar cart. She snatched a crystal highball glass, her glare practically burning a hole through my dead skull. Smash.

She hurled it hard against the floorboards. The shattering glass echoed through the silent living room, sharp and deafening. "Ah!" she shrieked.

She dropped to her knees and purposefully dragged her palm across the jagged shards. The balcony door yanked open. Declan rushed in. "What happened?" Kendall jerked her head up.

Tears spilled over her lashes right on cue. She held up her bleeding, sliced fingers. Her voice shook as she played the victim. "Declan… I—I just wanted to pour Isla some water.

But she… she seemed so furious. She smashed the glass at me and wouldn't even say a word. It's my fault. I crossed a boundary coming here.

I should just leave." Declan’s jaw clenched. The temperature in the room plummeted. He stared at the blood and shattered crystal, then whipped his head toward me.

I was still curled under that blanket, unresponsive and utterly still. Whatever shred of sympathy he’d held for me five minutes ago vanished.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled sharply. "Isla!" he barked. "We have a guest in our home. You throw glass at her over a petty grudge?

Could you stop acting like a literal child?" Silence. I couldn't defend myself. The screaming startled Finn.

He rushed back into the room, staring wildly between my lifeless body and Kendall's bleeding hand. He burst into tears. "I don't want a stupid holiday dinner!

I want pizza!" "Then ask your mother to make what you—" Declan snapped on instinct. He cut himself off. He glared at my sickly, pale face.

He threw his hands up in defeat, completely done with me. "Forget it! We can't count on her for anything.

Come on, Dad's taking you both out to eat!" Chapter 2 Before leaving, Declan pulled a platinum card from his wallet.

He shoved it across the coffee table, right next to that limitededition designer bag.

Then, he dug a small prescription bottle out of his pocket. "I pulled a lot of strings to get these meds.

Take them when you're done throwing your little tantrum." He paused, his tone dropping to a subzero freeze. "Stop playing dead just to guilttrip me, Isla.

I'm so damn tired of this." He spun on his heel and headed for the door. But right at the threshold, he hesitated. He turned back, lifting a hand to check my forehead for a fever.

His fingertips were mere inches from my skin. Kendall let out a sharp, agonizing gasp. "Declan… my hand hurts so bad. The bleeding won't stop." Declan froze.

He yanked his hand back and rushed to Kendall's side, gripping her wrist to inspect the shallow cuts. "Come on.

Let's get you to urgent care before it scars." The front door slammed shut. The house went dead quiet.

That bottle of imported pills sat completely untouched on the coffee table—barely two feet away from my corpse.

Floating near the ceiling, my soul drifted with them to an upscale steakhouse downtown. Declan meticulously cracked open king crab legs for our son. Kendall sat right beside them.

She flashed a radiant smile and held up her phone, snapping a candid, heartwarming picture of the two of them. She seamlessly pulled up Instagram.

Her thumbs tapped out a caption for her story: Another year down. So blessed to have my boys. The photo showed Declan's relaxed face and Finn's big smile.

Meanwhile, back in our living room, the ambient heat steadily bled out into the winter air.

My physical body turned entirely rigid, cooling parallel to the darkening night sky outside the window. Halfway through their dinner, Kendall’s phone buzzed with an incoming text.

She glanced at the lock screen. All the color drained from her face. Her fork clattered violently onto the porcelain plate. She slapped a hand over her mouth in mock horror.

Fresh tears spilled over her cheeks instantly. Her hands shook as she shoved the phone across the tablecloth toward Declan. "Declan… Isla… she just texted me.

She said if I dare step foot back in that house tonight, she's going to stab me to death." Declan went completely still, his face turning to stone.

He snatched the phone from her grip. Staring back at him was an iMessage from my contact, sent exactly ten minutes ago. It was the scheduled text Kendall had drafted on my phone.

Kendall, don't think for a second you've won just because Declan took you out. I just sharpened the chef's knife in the kitchen.

Walk through my front door, and I'll bury it in your chest. I don't care if we both die tonight! Declan slammed his fist onto the table.

The heavy thud made diners at the adjacent booths turn and stare. He whipped out his own phone and dialed my number immediately, his eyes blazing with unhinged fury.

It rang out to voicemail three consecutive times. Declan gritted his teeth, a dark, cynical scoff escaping his throat. "Wow. Real mature, Isla.

You have the nerve to send death threats, but you won't pick up the damn phone? Playing the victim now?

Giving me the silent treatment?" Kendall shrank into Declan's side right on cue, burying her face against his shoulder. "Declan, I'm scared… I'm so terrified.

Isla is acting completely unhinged. What if she's actually waiting in the dark with a knife? And Finn is right here.

We can't let her traumatize him." Chapter 3 Declan stared down at the trembling woman clutching his arm.

He glanced at Finn, entirely oblivious, digging the last chunks of meat out of a crab shell. His jaw tightened, shutting out any last thought of checking on her.

He made the choice that would ultimately destroy him. "We're not going back tonight." He stood up and snatched his wool coat from the booth. "If she wants to have a psychotic break in our house, she can do it alone.

We're heading straight to Aspen. We'll stay at the lodge for a few days.

Once the holidays are over and she drops this insane act, we'll go back and discuss the divorce." He flagged down the waiter.

Minutes later, his black SUV merged into the glowing downtown traffic, putting miles between him and our front door. Pitch black. The living room swallowed every ounce of light.

My phone rested on the rug, exactly three feet from my body. The screen lit up.

The harsh glare pulsed in the darkness, illuminating the dark, purplish lividity already pooling beneath my dead skin. Three missed calls from Declan. And one final text message.

Isla, you've suffocated me for years. Kendall is just my assistant. She isn't trying to replace you, yet you're so utterly insecure you can't even stand the sight of her.

Enjoy the holidays by yourself. Don't expect us back anytime soon. I didn't "harass" them for the next few days. He assumed his silent treatment worked. He had no idea.

While he chased fresh powder and laughed on the slopes of Aspen, I lay alone in our freezing living room, slowly rotting into the upholstery.

Still, a tight, heavy knot formed in Declan’s stomach. It made his jaw clench, sparking a senseless, gnawing irritation. He yanked his phone out.

His thumb hovered over my contact, fully intending to call and check on the house. But the glaring red missedcall badges and his own unanswered text mocked him.

Spite flared in his chest. He shoved the device back into his pocket. Kendall knew exactly how to play the long game.

The next afternoon, she conveniently caught an edge on the bunny hill.

She tumbled into the soft snow, clutching her ankle. "Declan, my ankle," she whimpered, tears freezing on her lashes. "It hurts so bad. I can't put any weight on it." Declan sighed.

He crouched down, letting her climb onto his back, and began trudging down the snowy incline.

Finn skipped alongside them, clapping his heavily mittened hands. "Dad's carrying Aunt Kendall! "Just like in the movies when the guy carries his new wife!" Declan’s face hardened instantly.

He snapped his head toward Finn. "Stop talking nonsense! Your mother is my wife!" The words ripped out of his throat before he could stop them. He froze in his tracks.

He couldn't fathom why his instincts had violently jerked to defend me. Clinging to his shoulders, Kendall heard every syllable.

Hate flashed in her eyes, but she quickly hid it behind a hurt look. Later that night, a shrill, earpiercing scream shattered the quiet of the lodge.

Kendall bolted out of her bedroom, her face chalkwhite. She shoved her phone screen directly into Declan's face. "Declan! Look!

Look at what Isla just sent me!" He snatched the phone. The screen displayed an ultracloseup, highdef photo of a brutally mangled, bloody rat.

The visceral gore practically bled through the glass. A single line of text sat beneath the horrific image. You're all going to die.

This time, the text originated from an unknown number. She had activated that burner phone weeks ago. Chapter 4 Declan stared at the sickening image on the burner phone.

Then, he glanced at his own lock screen—a photo of me, smiling softly. The air punched out of his lungs. "How did she turn into this?" he muttered.

Exhaustion and utter bewilderment bled into his voice. "Where the hell is the sweet, considerate Isla I married?" That night, Declan sat alone in the lodge's living area, downing glass after glass of dark liquor.

Kendall stayed plastered to his side, playing the quiet, supportive confidante. The drinks washed away his last bit of sense.

He turned to Kendall. "When we get back, I'm making arrangements to commit her to a psychiatric facility. I can't let her spiral like this anymore.

She's going to traumatize Finn." He genuinely thought he was making the best choice for everyone. Just as a twisted wave of relief washed over him, his phone buzzed.

Building management. "Sir? The tenant below you filed a massive complaint.

They said water from your unit is seeping through their ceiling." The property manager's voice bordered on frantic. "We've been knocking on your door for ten minutes.

No one is answering." It wasn't a water leak. It was the grotesque reality of death.

The dark, putrid fluids from my decaying body had saturated the sofa cushions, pooling onto the hardwood and seeping right through the floorboards.

Declan, already suffocating under the weight of my supposed drama, snapped. "My wife is asleep. She's sick and in a terrible mood. Do not bother her.

Just shut off the main water valve for the floor," he ordered. "I'll deal with it when I get back." He hung up, but the anger still clawed at his chest.

He ripped open our text thread and fired off another message. Isla, building management says our apartment is flooding and you're just ignoring it? What the hell is wrong with you?

Clean this mess up before we get home. He hit send. Nothing but dead air. He scoffed coldly and powered his phone off completely.

He had no idea that the Isla who used to text him back was already gone.

Kendall sat in the passenger seat of the SUV, planting seeds of doubt the entire drive home. "Declan, Isla must be absolutely furious.

She probably trashed the whole place." She reached over, wrapping her hand over his on the center console. "Promise me you won't lose your temper when we walk in.

She's so unstable right now. Please don't trigger her." Declan drove in stony silence. He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.

He pulled into the underground garage, parked, and ushered them into the elevator. The doors slid open.

The sight waiting for them in the hallway froze all three of them in their tracks. A massive crowd choked the corridor outside our front door. Uniformed police officers.

The building manager. A handful of nosy neighbors whispering frantically behind their hands. But the most glaring detail was the two figures stepping out of our apartment.

Medical examiners. Dressed in full protective gear, snapping off their blue latex gloves. The hallway smelled like old pennies and something rotting.

Kendall’s theatrical instincts kicked in immediately.

She slapped a hand over her mouth and cowered behind Declan's broad shoulders. "Oh my god… Declan, do you think Isla… do you think she actually hurt herself just to manipulate you?" She dug her manicured nails into his bicep.

Beneath her feigned terror, a sick thrill laced her voice. "She's so unhinged! I can't believe she'd go this far…" A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck.

He shoved violently through the crowd of onlookers, sprinting blindly toward the open door. "Isla!

What the hell are you pulling now?!" Chapter 5 A young patrol officer stepped right into his path, throwing a hand up to block him. "Sir, back up. Are you the homeowner?

What is your relationship to the deceased?" Declan shoved the officer's arm aside. His eyes locked onto the interior of the apartment. "I'm the owner!

Who the hell are you people, and why are you in my home?!" A deafening ring pierced his ears. His extended finger shook violently as he pointed into the living room. "Deceased?

Who died? My wife is asleep in there! She's sick and in a terrible mood. Do not wake her up!" It was utterly impossible.

He had just draped a blanket over my shoulders on Christmas Eve. I had just texted death threats to Kendall last night. Living, breathing people didn't just drop dead.

Kendall scrambled up right behind him. She seized the opportunity to clear her name, playing the innocent victim to perfection. "Exactly, Officer.

There has to be a massive misunderstanding. Isla is perfectly fine.

There's no way she's dead." She whipped out her phone and shoved the fabricated text threads into the cop's face. "Look!

Here's the death threat she sent me at 10:00 PM on Christmas Eve. And this—she texted me this horrific picture of a dead rat early Christmas morning.

How could she possibly be dead?" Furious, hushed whispers erupted from the crowd of neighbors in the hallway. An older, seasoned medical examiner stepped out of our front door.

He snapped off his surgical mask. His sharp, clinical gaze dragged from Declan's panicked face to Kendall's frantic, babbling one.

He delivered a single, icy question. "You're claiming she texted you a picture in the middle of the night?" He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.

Two technicians maneuvered a gurney out of the living room.

A heavy, opaque white body bag rested on top. "Based on the stiffness of the body, the room temperature, and early signs of rotting…" The ME paused. "The deceased, Isla, suffered sudden cardiac arrest.

Her time of death was a minimum of forty hours ago." The ME locked eyes with Kendall, whose face had just drained of every drop of color.

He enunciated every syllable with brutal precision. "Meaning, she passed away around 8:00 PM on Christmas Eve. So, tell me.

How exactly did a woman who had been dead for two days manage to text you a photo last night?

Did her corpse resurrect to use a smartphone?" "No… that's impossible." Declan's voice cracked.

His pupils dilated rapidly, his gaze completely fracturing. "Eight o'clock on Christmas Eve… No! When I walked in that night, she was sleeping on the couch!

I literally put a blanket over her!" The veteran ME offered zero pity. Only clinical, brutal truth. "She wasn't sleeping. She was already gone.

Son, when you laid that blanket over your wife, did you seriously not notice her skin was icecold?" Icecold. A violent tremor ripped down Declan's spine.

A flashback slammed into his brain. Christmas Eve. His fingertips grazing the back of my hand as he adjusted the throw blanket. It had been freezing. It had been rigid.

He had blindly assumed the apartment's heating was broken. He had convinced himself I was just tensing my muscles, putting on a show to freeze him out.

He never once considered the truth. It wasn't a tantrum. It was rigor mortis. "No!

Absolutely not!" Kendall shrieked, her voice pitching into a hysterical, desperate register. "Your coroner must have made a mistake! You can't possibly pinpoint the time like that!

She threatened me! The texts are right here on my phone!

Officer, you have to investigate this!" The young cop stared at her, his expression turning to stone. "Oh, we will." Chapter 6 A forensics tech stepped forward, gripping two clear evidence bags.

One held Kendall's iPhone.

The other contained mine, its screen pitchblack after the battery finally died. "The phone's logs show the screen last lit up at 7:50 PM on Christmas Eve," the tech stated flatly. "It powered down from battery depletion shortly after.

We just got it back on the charger." He held the plastic bag up, deadcentering his gaze on Kendall. "More importantly, we checked the phone's system for the exact times you claimed to receive those death threats.

Those texts were absolutely sent from her device." "However—" The officer's eyes narrowed into absolute daggers. "Our lab lifted a crystalclear fingerprint right off the deceased's screen.

It didn't belong to her." He locked onto Kendall's chalkwhite face. "We ran the prints. They're yours." Declan snapped his head around. He stared at Kendall.

The blood drained from his face as his eyes widened. "It was you?" His voice scraped out of his throat, rough as sandpaper. "You used Isla's phone to schedule those texts to yourself?

She was already dead. She was already dead! Kendall, you faked this entire damn thing for two days?" His voice completely fractured on the last syllable.

He lunged past the cops, violently unzipping the heavy white body bag on the gurney. Beneath the canvas lay my face. The skin was a sickly gray, covered in dark purple spots.

My body remained locked in that exact same curled position from the sofa. Serene. Horrifyingly permanent. Declan stared at me. Bile surged up the back of his throat.

He remembered barking at this decaying corpse, lecturing me while I slowly cooled into the cushions.

He remembered tossing that lifesaving pill bottle inches from my lifeless fingers, whining about how tired he was.

He remembered blowing off the building manager from a ski lodge, snapping that his wife was just sleeping. His hand shook violently as he reached out to graze my cheek.

No more room for doubt. Only the bonedeep, unforgiving freeze of death against his fingertips. "Ah—!" His knees buckled. He slammed onto the hardwood floor.

A raw, guttural, animalistic scream ripped through his vocal cords. "Isla!" Finn wailed in absolute terror. He pointed a trembling finger at my body. "Mom!

Why is Mom a different color? Aunt Kendall said Mom was just fake sleeping! Mom, why won't you get up?!" Fake sleeping.

Those two words drove a poisoned spike straight into Declan's eardrums. He whipped his head around.

His bloodshot eyes locked onto Kendall, practically ready to tear her limb from limb. Every single lie from the past fortyeight hours echoed in his skull. Isla is bullying me.

Isla is threatening me. Looking back, it was a waking nightmare. The wife he thought was throwing a toxic, unhinged tantrum had been dead the entire time.

Rotting alone on a freezing sofa. Silently absorbing his vicious insults as he defended another woman to her decaying corpse.

Chapter 7 In the kitchen, they found the heavy Dutch oven, its enamel bottom scorched and warped black.

Right beside it, sitting in perfectly neat rows on the marble cutting board, was a tray of handcrimped, unbaked mini beef Wellingtons.

The pastry dough had completely airdried into stiff, hardened shells. A young officer inspecting the counter spotted a small Postit note stuck to the marble.

The handwriting was erratic. The letters slanted and jagged—a desperate struggle from someone in the throes of agonizing physical collapse.

Declan, this might be the last time I ever cook for you. I know you hate coming home lately. I know the sickness hangs over me like a cloud.

But I remembered these are your absolute favorite. Another year down. Merry Christmas. All the oxygen vanished from the room. A sharp, heavy pain hit his chest.

He braced his forearms against the kitchen wall, his eyes glued to that pale yellow square of paper. Silent, scalding tears tracked down his jaw. The memory slammed into him.

Walking through the front door on Christmas Eve. Smelling the burning metal. The absolute, suffocating annoyance that had flared in his chest.

He had been so incredibly disgusted by the mess. Furious that she had let a pot boil dry. He hadn't touched a single bite.

Instead, he stood right in front of her dying body, scooped up another woman and his son, and walked out to a fivestar holiday dinner. It was her final, agonizing act of love.

Her last supper for him, made with the very last ounce of strength she had left. "Ah—!" Declan snapped. He lunged at the marble island.

He grabbed handfuls of the rockhard, unbaked Wellingtons and shoved them frantically into his mouth.

The stiff, driedout pastry and rancid, spoiled meat tasted like literal ash and rot. He didn't care.

He chewed violently, forcing the raw mass down his throat as sobs violently wracked his chest. "I'm eating it… Isla… I'm eating it…" His voice was a garbled, wet choke. "Don't be mad at me… I'm eating it now… Just wake up, please…" He chewed the rotting food, needing the bad taste to block out the heavy regret crushing his chest.

But it was too late. The police moved in. Based on the digital forensics and the maliciously fabricated texts, Kendall was officially their primary suspect.

An officer slammed cold steel cuffs onto her wrists, aggressively hauling her toward the door. As they dragged her past Declan, her heels dug into the floorboards. She stopped.

A nasty smile stretched across her face. "Declan!

Stop playing the tragic, grieving husband!" She shrieked, letting her carefully crafted, innocent mask shatter completely into a million pieces. "You despised her!

You were the one who avoided coming home! Do you think I'm blind? You were so damn sick of dealing with a dying, pathetic wife!

I just handed you the perfect excuse to walk away!" Every single word was a serrated blade to his throat. "Don't you dare forget!" she spat, her eyes wild. "On Christmas Eve, she had just collapsed!

Her body was still warm! If you had bothered to check her pulse—if you had just tried CPR—she would have survived!" Her shrill, mocking laughter echoed off the walls. "It was you!

You pulled that blanket over her yourself! You literally let the window to save her life slam shut!

You buried her, Declan!" A violent, sickening pressure built at the base of Declan's throat