The Diary of the First Wife

Mei found the book by accident. She was looking for a fresh blanket in the cedar closet in the guest wing—a part of the house she was told was under renovation.

It was tucked behind a stack of linens. A leather-bound journal, old and cracked.

She opened it. The calligraphy was frantic, the ink blotchy.

*Year of the Rat. He demands more. The headaches are gone for him, but mine are blinding. I cannot stand up today.*

Mei turned the pages.

*Year of the Ox. My teeth are loose. The doctor says it is anemia. The doctor is a liar. He works for the Chen family. I am being eaten alive.*

Mei flipped to the end. The handwriting was barely a scrawl.

*I tried to leave. The Mark burned me. It ties my meridian to his. If I get too far, my heart stops. There is no divorce. There is only withering. I am the third one. God help the fourth.*

Mei dropped the book.

The third one.

She wasn't the lucky bride. She was a battery. A disposable filter for a cursed bloodline.

She looked in the mirror on the closet door. She saw the dark circles under her eyes, the gaunt cheeks. She looked like a ghost.

Feng wasn't curing her poverty. He was harvesting her life.

And he knew. He knew she was dying. That’s why he bought her jewelry—to decorate the corpse.

Mei’s hands trembled. She wasn't going to wither. She wasn't going to be a footnote in a leather book.

Tonight was Lunar New Year. The staff would be busy. The gates would be open for the delivery trucks.

She had to run. Even if it killed her, she would die on the street, not in this gilded tomb.

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