Fatal Vows: Contractually wedded To Doom

"Miss Zara, I'm afraid I have devastating news to share with you," said the man wearing a lab coat, who had tested Zara just hours ago. His expression was filled with empathy, causing Zara a great deal of worry.

"You have been diagnosed with stage four glioblastoma," Mr. Smith said, handing the test results to Zara.

With slow, fidgeting hands, she collected the test results, her gaze drifting off to the last word. It read "positive."

Her hands twitched as tears brimmed at the corners of her eyelids. It was impossible. She couldn't believe what she heard or what she saw on the paper.

Stage four glioblastoma? Was that the same as a brain tumor? That couldn't be true.

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words formed.

"From the MRI scan we took, there is a malignant growth in your brain cells, and it's growing rapidly. Sadly, you have only eleven months to live," Mr. Smith said, though his remaining words turned into noise in Zara's ears.

Zara stood there motionless. It felt like her soul had left her body upon hearing she had only eleven months to live.

"Miss Zara?" Mr. Smith called, noticing her inattentiveness. In response, Zara jolted out of her thoughts.

"What do you mean by eleven months to live?" Zara asked, raising her brows as she plastered a forced smile on her lips.

She tried to convince herself that it wasn't true. Maybe the doctor had mistaken her for someone else.

As she waited for his response, her eyes filled with hope.

"I'm sorry, Miss Zara. You must be aware of the symptoms," Mr. Smith said, casting his gaze downward.

She knew the fucking symptoms far too well. She didn't need to be reminded, having experienced them before deciding to come to the hospital.

All she wanted was a way to live. She didn't want to die—a painful death at that. She had thought it was a fever when she had been having severe headaches.

"Isn't there treatment? There must have been some people who made it out," she asked, her vision blurred from tears, her mouth quivering with anxiety.

"There's no guarantee of survival, but I would advise paying for chemotherapy to reduce the pain," he said, his eyes locked on Zara's.

"And how much is that?" Zara couldn't help but ask, her voice shaky with anxiety.

"$5,000 per treatment," he said and turned to leave.

Per treatment? Where was she supposed to get that ridiculous amount of money? She was an orphan who could barely feed and clothe herself.

Working as a baker wasn't even enough to get fifty dollars, let alone fifty thousand dollars.

Zara could feel her world crumbling. Her eyelashes fluttered rapidly to stop the hot tears threatening to fall.

She stared at his broad back for a while before he turned in the opposite direction. She felt hopeless, devastated, and lonely, and the thought of having only eleven months to live overwhelmed her even more.

Whether she paid for the chemotherapy or not, she was destined to die. Fate was truly cruel!

Where was she supposed to get that kind of money?

Zara's hands clenched the fabric of her yellow knee-length gown, trying her best to hold back the tears, but she couldn't help it any longer.

She wanted to cry her heart out. She wanted comfort, to feel loved, but that wasn't coming anytime soon since she had only eleven months to live.

It was all her fault! She had to die because of her carelessness, because she hadn't paid attention to her health but instead worked day and night as a baker.

Her heart twisted painfully, and it was evident from her expression. Her legs staggered as they carried her toward the elevator. She felt lifeless, even before the eleven months were over.

Who was she going to turn to? Who was going to save her? Why her? Why not someone else? Why did she have to die now?

Not when she hadn't experienced the feeling of loving someone and being loved, not when she hadn't found her family, and not when she hadn't fulfilled her dream of opening her own bakery shop.

Her eyes were beginning to turn red from the unshed tears waiting to pour out. Her legs wobbled as she stepped into the elevator when it dinged.

As soon as she entered, the doors closed, and the tears that had been held back for so long began to roll down her cheeks and into her mouth, filling it with a salty taste.

Sobs racked her body, shaking her to the core as she wept uncontrollably. She cried until her chest ached and her throat was raw, but still, the tears kept flowing like a river. She felt empty, her brain refusing to accept reality.

Her eyes were heavy with tears, and soon they turned bloodshot. She felt like she was drowning in a sea of pain, unable to escape its crushing weight. She cried until her tears ran dry, and yet her heart still felt numb and empty.

Ding! The elevator sounded, and the doors opened. Zara made her way out, her legs trembling as she struggled to walk. She wasn't watching where she was going until she bumped into someone.

"Sorry," she said weakly, bowing her head. Her eyes were swollen from the endless tears she had shed.

Zara was too overwhelmed and deep in thought to notice the mischievous grin on the face of the person she had accidentally bumped into.

"I see you are a young lady in distress," the woman said, her smile fading.

It was then that Zara looked up reluctantly, only to look away and prepare to leave, but the woman stopped her with words Zara wished were true.

"Do you have a wish you want granted?" the middle-aged woman asked, pausing briefly.

Zara turned to look at her again, and there was something about the woman she couldn't quite place.

Was it her confidence or her words that made her seem mysterious? It probably wasn't her confidence, considering the way she was dressed—in tattered, dirty clothes.

Her blouse had a sharp tear under her armpit, and there were small cuts all over.

The middle-aged woman clung to an old wooden stick and seemed to struggle to walk.

Zara scowled, remembering she still needed money for the chemotherapy. She felt down again and unready to listen to whatever the woman wanted to say. Though the woman had caught her attention, nothing mattered more than living to Zara.

"I could tell you more if you're interested," she said, noticing Zara's tightened jaw.

Without waiting for a response, the woman continued speaking.

"In my lifetime, I've seen many people come and go, each with their own desires and wishes," she said in a low, mysterious voice.

"Some wanted wealth, others wanted... love, and a few wanted power. But that changed when a man sought to break his endless cycle of reincarnation."

She paused, noticing Zara's curiosity at her words.

"He wanted to escape the never-ending wheel of birth, death, and rebirth. To finally find peace and freedom from the karma that binds him," she added as she moved to sit on a nearby seat.

Zara's gaze followed her every movement. She didn't want to believe the woman, but her curiosity got the better of her.

She wondered who the man was. Was he still alive? Was his wish granted? Could she, too, get a chance to live again?

A shiver ran down Zara's spine as she thought about the woman's words. It was as though the woman could read her mind, as she spoke again.

"I can grant your wish, but be warned, it comes with a price. A price you may or may not be willing to pay," the woman said, her eyes gleaming with an unknown light.

Zara scoffed at the word "price." Yet another gold digger, she thought to herself. If she had the money, why would she waste her time listening to this woman rather than paying for her treatment?

"I see where you're going, but I don't have any money to give you," Zara said, turning to leave, but the woman stopped her dead in her tracks again.

"Not money, silly," the woman said with a smile.

Zara scoffed again at her words. If this woman could help her live again, she was willing to pay the price ten thousand times over.

"What kind of price, then?" Zara asked, her eyebrows raised, her red eyes filled with curiosity.

"Ah, that's for me to know and you to find out," the woman replied, a smile curled at the corner of her lips.

Zara bit her lip, her mind finally beginning to believe the woman.

Could she really grant her wish without money? Could she let her live? She didn't care what the price was and was willing to do anything, even if it meant becoming the devil's incarnate.

"So, what should I do?" Zara asked, surrendering to the temptation before her.

"All you need to do is go to the main cemetery, cut your palm in the center, and say your wish. It's that simple."

"Wait, you... you mean I should go to that haunted cemetery, the one that's ended people's lives and has been around for more than a thousand years?" Zara shouted, throwing her hands in the air, trying to process what the woman had said.

The woman remained motionless, blinking her eyelashes as she watched Zara. Everything Zara said seemed to make sense to the woman, though not to Zara.

Zara's father had always warned her and her brother never to set foot in the old cemetery, as it was dangerous. She was told that anyone who went there never returned, and she had always respected her father's words.

"Only those with a wish go there and come back alive. Would that be a problem if you want to live?" the old woman said, shocking Zara, as if she could feel her confusion.

The woman chuckled as she walked toward the elevator.

"Think wisely, Zara," she said, and that was the last time Zara heard her name from the woman.

After she left, Zara slumped into the chair near the elevator. The words "Think wisely, Zara" kept echoing in her mind. She sighed as she leaned back against the chair.

Suddenly, it dawned on Zara that the woman had called her by name. How did this mysterious woman know her?

Was she really going to die in eleven months? She knew people with glioblastoma always ended up dying, but she couldn't stop questioning herself.

If she had a chance to live again, she would do anything. So why couldn't she do what the woman had said? She had the opportunity; what was stopping her?

She was about to stand up when her phone rang inside her bag. She reached in and pulled out her phone, seeing that her boss was calling.

Hesitantly, she picked up the call, bracing herself for a scolding from her boss, who had picked the worst time to call.

"Where are you, Zara?" he demanded. "Don't you know you have people to attend to, you slut?"

Zara squeezed her eyes shut, on the verge of tears. She was used to the name "slut" after rejecting her boss's offer to be his mistress. She rubbed her temples, remembering how he used to torment her.

Today was her day off, yet here he was, calling her to work. She had worked hard for this man, but he never seemed to be satisfied.

Zara had done everything she could to achieve her dreams, yet they were still short-lived. She felt like she was being forced to count the days she would live, while her boss, the cause of her problems, would live as long as he pleased.

Why her? Why couldn't it be him instead?

Her grip tightened around her phone as she listened to his barrage of insults and curses. A deep chuckle escaped her lips, startling her boss into silence.

She resigned herself to her fate and decided to confront him one last time.

"You bloody psychopath."