Six Days Too Late

I hovered near the ceiling. Right below me, my husband, Rhodes, was helping his exgirlfriend, Celine, sign a contract. He had no idea I was already dead.

My corpse lay cold on our kitchen floor. I had been lying there for six straight days. Suddenly, Miller slammed the office door open.

He rushed in, his voice shaking as he screamed, "Your wife is dead!" The pen slipped from Rhodes's fingers. It dropped to the floor with a hollow clatter. Chapter 1 I was dead.

I drifted near the ceiling, staring down at my own body. I lay curled on the cold kitchen tiles. The side of my face was pressed flat against the floor.

A shattered glass was scattered inches from my nose. The fever had spiked that night, melting the strength straight out of my bones. I just wanted a glass of hot water.

The moment I stepped into the kitchen, my vision went black. Gravity pulled me forward. The back of my head slammed against the sharp edge of the granite counter.

A dull, sickening thud. I lay there, clinging to a fading sliver of consciousness. My fingers clumsily patted my pajama pockets. Empty.

My phone was plugged into the charger on the living room coffee table. I tried to crawl. My knees scraped the tiles twice, but my arms completely gave out. Blood slid down my neck.

Thick. Warm. Slowly soaking into the collar of my pajamas. Then, there was just nothing. Rhodes hadn't been home in five days. We had a fight.

The reason was almost laughable—his exgirlfriend, Celine, had moved back to town and leased an independent boutique cafe right around the corner of our block.

It wasn't a coincidence. She posted a photo on Instagram, tagging the location right in our neighborhood.

The caption read: "New beginnings on familiar streets." When I saw it, my hand cramped around my phone, my knuckles turning stark white.

During the three years Celine was gone, I thought we had turned the page. Rhodes and I only got together after she left.

Back then, she packed her bags and moved down to Nashville with some indie musician. Just walked out without a backward glance. Rhodes had been a hollowedout shell.

He stopped eating. Stopped stepping outside.

I was the one who brought him takeout every single day, sitting on the dirty hallway floor outside his apartment, waiting for him to unlock the door.

Sometimes the food turned stone cold and the deadbolt never clicked. I would just leave the bags on the mat and text him: "Food's outside.

Heat it up." Eventually, he opened that door. Eventually, we started dating. Eventually, we got married. But after the wedding, reality slowly set in.

His treatment of me always felt muffled, like there was a sheet of frosted glass between us. He wasn't freezing cold, but he wasn't warm either.

He provided everything a husband was supposed to, but not a single ounce more. I told myself it was fine. A solid marriage was built on routine, not cinematic romance.

The month Celine came back, I swallowed my tongue and endured it. She texted Rhodes constantly.

Asking about contractors for her cafe renovation, asking about wholesale bean suppliers, asking about the electrical wiring. Rhodes replied to every single message.

I didn't mean to snoop. He was in the shower, and his phone buzzed three times on the nightstand. I glanced over. It was Celine. "Rhodes, the plumbing is leaking again.

The landlord is dodging my calls.

I really don't know who else to turn to." He stepped out of the bathroom, saw the notification, and typed a reply while toweldrying his hair: "I'll come take a look tomorrow." I stood right next to him.

His eyes never even flicked in my direction. "Weren't you coming with me to the hospital for my followup tomorrow?" I asked.

He paused, the towel going still. "What followup?" My physical earlier that year showed some stomach issues. The doctor had scheduled a threemonth checkup. He had forgotten.

I didn't yell that night. I just stated a fact. "Rhodes.

Her plumbing is more important than my health, isn't it?" He threw the damp towel onto the vanity, his jaw clenching. "Can you not turn everything into a twisted jealousy trip?

I'm just doing a favor. Do you really need to make a huge deal out of it?" "I do." My voice was quiet, but heavy. "Her leasing a spot right on our block isn't a coincidence.

Her asking you to fix her pipes doesn't mean she has no one else. You jump the second she calls because you're terrified of making her feel neglected.

But did it ever cross your mind who you're actually neglecting?" He went dead silent for a long time.

Then, he snatched his car keys off the dresser. "I'm sleeping at the office." The front door clicked shut.

It was a quiet sound, but my nails dug so hard into my palms that they nearly drew blood. Chapter 2 From that day on, he never came back. And I never called.

In the past, whenever we fought, I would cave within two days tops. But this time, I refused to bend. I didn't even know what I was betting on.

Maybe I was gambling on whether he would swallow his pride and walk through that door on his own. I lost the bet.

All I won was a raging fever, an empty glass, and a skull shattered against a granite counter. I drifted in the air, watching Rhodes sit in his office all night. He didn't go home.

He didn't text me. But Celine did. Around 9 PM, his screen lit up again. "Rhodes, the cafe sign fell over.

It's so heavy, I can't lift it by myself." He glanced at it, but didn't reply. A flicker of hesitation crossed his eyes—debating if he should drive back to me.

Instead, he just flipped the phone face down and kept his eyes glued to the financial spreadsheets on his monitor.

At 11:30 PM, he pushed back his chair, walked into the private lounge attached to his office, and lay down. Sleeping at the office was nothing new for him.

During the hardest days of our startup phase, he crashed on a sleeping bag on the office floor for three solid months.

Back then, I woke up at 6 AM every day and drove that beatup used Chevy to bring him breakfast.

When he complained the croissants weren't flaky enough, I would get up at 5:30 AM to line up at the bakery at the other end of the block.

I made sure to deliver them before 6 AM so they still had that freshoutoftheoven heat. Later, as the company finally took off, he stopped complaining about flaky pastries.

Because I stopped delivering them. He had an assistant now. He had an admin team. He had people to arrange his entire life.

I transitioned from the delivery girl to his official wife. But sometimes, I actually missed being the girl with the breakfast bags.

At least back then, when he opened the door, his eyes would light up with a smile the second he saw me. The next morning.

Miller walked in with a fresh cup of coffee and dropped the daily itinerary on the desk. "Rhodes, you have a client pitch at 3 PM, and dinner with Conrad tonight." Rhodes gave a low grunt.

Miller paused, shifting his weight. "Veda hasn't been to the office in three days. Accounting has two expense reports stuck on her desk.

They're asking what to do." I held the official title of Finance Director. But it was more than just a title—I did the actual grunt work.

In the early years, when we couldn't afford a real accounting firm, I carried the entire department on my back.

Even after we scaled up and hired a full team, a lot of the core approvals still had to go through my hands. Rhodes's fingers froze halfway to his coffee mug. "Leave her out of it.

Let the expense reports sit." Miller opened his mouth to argue, but swallowed the words back down. He knew we had fought.

The night Rhodes slammed the door and stormed out, Miller happened to be in the underground parking garage grabbing something from his car. He saw the whole thing.

He saw me standing at the garage exit, the wind whipping my hair into a messy tangle. I didn't chase the car. I didn't scream.

I just stood there, watching the red taillights vanish around the corner.

Miller clearly wanted to say more, but he took one look at Rhodes's dark expression and shifted gears. "I'll hold onto the paperwork until she gets back, then." Rhodes stayed silent, accepting the default.

Day four. My mom showed up at my house again. The last time she came over, she rang the doorbell with no answer. She tried calling Rhodes, but he let it go to voicemail.

She figured we had taken a spontaneous road trip. But four days had passed, and my phone was still going straight to voicemail. Her chest tightened, the air suddenly growing thin.

Chapter 3 She wasn't the type to overreact.

She had worked at a garment factory for twenty years, and when it went under, she spent another ten running a stall at the local farmer's market. She had seen it all.

But four days of radio silence from her daughter? That broke her composure. She called my best friend, Cassidy, first. Cassidy hadn't heard from me.

Then she tried the front desk at Rhodes's company. The receptionist said he was in a meeting. My mom hesitated, then dialed Rhodes's cell directly.

This time, he picked up. "Mom." "Rhodes, where exactly is Veda? I've been calling her for four days. Her phone is off, she's not reading my texts.

Is she even at home?" Rhodes frowned. His finger tapped a slow rhythm against his mahogany desk. Four days.

From my spot near the ceiling, I watched his eyes flick to the digital calendar on his monitor. It had been five days since he slammed our front door.

Five days of absolute silence from my end. No missed calls, no angry texts. Historically, I always caved by day two. This time, nothing.

He rubbed the back of his neck, the line of his jaw tightening. He probably thought I was just playing a twisted game of chicken.

Trying to see who would blink first. "Her phone probably just died. I'll swing by the house tonight and check." His tone carried that familiar, clipped edge of irritation.

My mom heard it. The line went silent for two long seconds. "Rhodes. Did you two have another fight?" "Mom, it's fine. We had a little disagreement, that's all.

It's normal." "You make sure you go home tonight. I have a bad feeling about this." "Alright." He hung up and tossed his phone back onto the desk.

But his afternoon pitch dragged on until 6:30 PM, followed by a frantic lastminute revision on a client proposal. By the time he closed his laptop, it was pushing 10 PM.

He leaned back in his leather chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. He grabbed his keys, then paused. His hand dropped. I could see the exact moment his muscles relaxed.

He figured I was already asleep. He would deal with the fallout tomorrow. But he didn't know I had been glued to the cold kitchen tiles for five days. Day six.

My mom took the bus over herself. She carried a heavy Tupperware container of homemade pork rib stew she'd slowcooked the night before.

She took two different buses, a fortyminute commute.

The security guard at the front gate recognized her immediately. "Visiting your daughter again?" She offered a polite, tight smile and nodded.

She took the elevator up and pressed the doorbell. No answer. She pressed it again. Still nothing. She slammed her palm flat against the heavy front door. "Veda?

Veda, open the door." Dead silence. She pressed her ear flat against the wood. Not a single sound. Her breath hitched. Her knees buckled slightly.

Her hands shook uncontrollably as she dug her phone out of her purse. She dialed my number first. Straight to voicemail. She dialed Rhodes.

This time, the polite motherinlaw facade was gone. "Rhodes, you need to get here right now. Something is wrong with Veda." "Mom, I have a—" "Right.

Now." She had never spoken to him with that kind of razorsharp edge. She was a gentle woman. In all her years married to my dad, she had never once raised her voice.

She had always treated Rhodes with careful, respectful distance. But right now, her voice was shaking. On the other end of the line, Rhodes froze.

The thick layer of annoyance masking his face finally cracked. Six days. Phone turned off. Texts unread. Doorbell ignored. Missing work. That wasn't me.

No matter how deep my grudge ran, I would never ignore my own mother. He shot up from his desk. His heavy chair rolled back and slammed hard against the filing cabinet.

A loud crash echoed through the room. Miller poked his head through the doorway. "Rhodes?" "Cancel my morning meetings." He snatched his car keys and bolted out the door.

Chapter 4 He reached the elevator bank, then suddenly pivoted and dialed the property management office. "Has no one swiped in or out of my unit for the last six days?" The manager checked the system logs. "Sir, after you left last Tuesday night, there hasn't been any activity.

As for your wife… her last entry was Monday afternoon. Nothing since." Last Monday. The day before my fever spiked.

I had gone out that afternoon to buy a thermometer and a box of fever reducers. After I came back, I never stepped foot outside again.

Rhodes gripped his phone, his knuckles bleaching white. He sprinted. A twentyfiveminute drive. He made it in fourteen. My mom was still standing outside the front door.

The Tupperware of pork rib stew sat by her feet, completely cold. The second Rhodes bolted out of the elevator, my mom's eyes went red. "The door won't open.

I don't have a key." Rhodes stepped up to the door and pressed his thumb against the biometric scanner.

His hand shook so hard it took two tries for the scanner to read his erratic fingerprint. The deadbolt clicked open. The sound was sharp, like a blade slicing through taut fabric.

He pushed the door inward. The stale air rushed out. It carried a heavy, cloying, sickeningly sweet stench. All the blood drained from my mom's face. Rhodes took a step inside.

The living room looked perfectly normal. The only difference was the thermometer I had left on the coffee table, right next to a halfempty blister pack of pills.

He took a few more steps forward. He saw the kitchen. More accurately, he saw me. I lay curled on the floor right beside the stove, the side of my face plastered to the tiles.

One arm was stretched straight out—the exact position I froze in while trying to reach for my missing phone