The Headlines of My Death

The red bridal gown wrapped my body, the embroidered phoenix spread its wings on the hem, yet it suffocated me. On my phone, the Hospital's payment reminder popped up again; my mother's surgery still required another two hundred thousand. My fingers gripping the phone turned white as I looked up toward Ricky Wilson, who was chatting with guests not far away. He is the Wilson Family's legitimate heir, a favored son of fortune, while I am just Giselle Franco, from a humble family with a mother bedridden for years. Our originally agreed betrothal gifts were eighty-eight thousand, a figure he and I had settled on. But now, I have no other choice. I walked up to him, my voice trembling ever so slightly: "Ricky, about the betrothal gifts... could we change it to two hundred and eighty thousand?" Ricky Wilson's smile froze instantly; he furrowed his brows, staring at me with eyes full of disbelief. The surrounding guests quieted down slightly, whispers slipping into my ears. I know I'm being unreasonable, but my mother's life is right before my eyes—I can't give up. After a tense half-minute, Ricky Wilson's Adam's apple bobbed once, and he finally nodded to the assistant beside him. The matter of the betrothal gifts was settled just like that. The wedding ceremony proceeded step by step, but I felt like a puppet on strings, dazed the entire time. Only when he carried me into the wedding car, preparing to go to the bridal chamber, did the warm breath brush against my ear. His voice was icy and sharp: "Giselle, you really are an unabashed 'gold digger'." Those words pierced my heart like needles, filling it with aching pain. I opened my mouth to explain, but my throat felt blocked, and no sound came out. I knew that from the moment I suggested changing the betrothal gifts, an unbridgeable chasm had formed between us. The bridal room was a detached villa, lavishly decorated, with every detail reflecting the Wilson Family's wealth. Yet there was not a trace of warmth here—only an endless, desolate coldness. On our wedding night, Ricky Wilson didn't touch me. He sat on the sofa smoking; through the curling smoke, his profile was cold and sculpted. "Giselle, my money didn't just come from the wind." He said, his voice dripping with mockery. "You accepted two hundred and eighty thousand in betrothal gifts from me—just settle down and be my Mrs. Wilson. Don't get any ideas about asking for more." I curled up in the corner of the bed, tears silently falling. I wanted to tell him I wasn't greedy for money—I just wanted to save my mother. But I can't say anything; the hospital is still waiting for this money to carry out the surgery. Life after marriage has been even harder than I imagined. Ricky Wilson rarely comes home, and even when he does, he ignores me completely. I heard from others and saw in entertainment news that he's never short of women around him. Those women are glamorous, from prominent families, making me—a "gold digger"—seem all the more starkly out of place.