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1000 Ways to Kill My Cheating Husband: The Schizophrenia Romance

Till death do us part.

She takes that as gospel, etched into her soul. Not a promise but a command. A law. A binding truth she whispers like a prayer in the dead of night.

Elizabeth doesn’t understand love, not the fragile, conditional kind that mortals speak of. But adoration? That, she knows intimately. She adores her husband with a devotion so fierce it borders on worship. She drinks in the sight of him like he’s the last drop of water in a dying world.

He is hers, only hers. His laughter, his touch, his thoughts, even the breaths he takes while he sleeps beside her. She burns for him, her desire as endless as the oceans and as consuming as fire.

And if another woman dares to look at him, if their gaze lingers a second too long, if they think they can taste even a crumb of what is hers, she will end it. She will end them. She will end him.

Because what is hers stays hers. Forever.

But here’s the twist: Phil would never betray her. Never. He loves her.

But you don’t know that. You, the voices in her head, have seen the way he smiles at strangers. You’ve seen the late nights, the private phone calls, the scent of something unfamiliar that clings to him when he walks through the door. You feed her obsession. You feed her madness.

And she feeds you right back.

Because Elizabeth isn’t just a woman. She’s an empire. An heiress to unimaginable wealth, a daughter of power, the queen of a kingdom she can burn down with a snap of her fingers. This world bends to her will, even in her insanity. And her husband? He is bound to her by law, by blood, by destiny.

Phil doesn’t know it yet, but he belongs to her. His kind eyes, his gentle hands, his foolish heart every inch of him is hers to adore, to love, to destroy.

Phil’s job is simple: keep her sane or die trying.

But here’s the cruel joke, he’s not just her psychiatrist. He’s in love with her. Stupidly, desperately, recklessly in love.

And if he’s not careful, he might just die in love with her.

1000 WAYS TO KILL MY CHEATING HUSBAND: THE SCHIZOPHRENIA ROMANCE

The morning was filled with noisy cutlery.

He was so dashing when he was mad.

His hair was still a bed hair mess, even though he had showered.

He looked so good in his work clothes, a luxurious, custom-tailored charcoal gray suit, sharp enough to cut through tension.

The crisp white shirt underneath was perfectly pressed, and the silk tie, a deep shade of blue, matched his piercing eyes.

His polished leather shoes reflected the warm glow of the chandelier above them.

She sat at the long mahogany dining table, its glossy surface gleaming under the cascading light of an opulent crystal chandelier.

The plates were fine bone china, rimmed with gold, and the cutlery was polished silver, heavy and elegant.

A centerpiece of fresh white roses and lilies adorned the table, sitting between bowls of exotic fruit and delicate glassware that caught the morning sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows.

The room itself was grand, with high ceilings, ornate molding, and large, abstract oil paintings that adorned the walls.

She listened to the sound of her teeth crushing the bones of chicken.

"Why are you eating me?" the chicken fried between her teeth.

She closed her eyes and continued to chew. "I have feelings too, you know?" the chicken cried.

She took the pen knife from her place setting and began to stab the chicken on her plate. "Shut the fuck up," she said calmly.

The knife crashed through its tenderly cooked bones, slamming against the delicate china plate. "Shut the fuck up!" she said louder now.

She now screamed, "Shut the fuck up!"

His voice was a calm in the noisy haze, and her gaze suddenly snapped up, locking into his worried, bright blue eyes.

"Are you alright?" he asked kindly.

Not what the hell are you doing?

The usual reactions she got from her parents, family, friends, and colleagues.

It was simply, Are you alright?

How could she share such a wonderful man with even oxygen?

"I want your man too," the chicken said, licking its lips.

Elizabeth picked it up, tossed it on the ground, and stepped on it as it screamed to only her hearing.

"I thought you were mad at me," she said calmly, admiring his blue gaze.

Fuck him for being the only thing keeping her sane.

His grip tightened over the silver spoon he held. "Did you kill her?"

Ah, that woman even in the grave must still wish for death if she still dwells in your thoughts, she thought to herself.

Should she drag her back from hell and stab her again?

She said nothing but gave him a coy smile. "Does the sun rise in the east?"

That was all the answer he needed to turn pale.

The Chicken