He Doesn't Deserve a Ninth Death
Three years after my divorce, I won Bestselling Author of the Year 2026 for my Dead Husband Series.
At the awards ceremony, the host asked me, “Congratulations, Ms. Bennett! The male lead has the same name in all eight books, and you’ve killed him eight different times. Is he based on someone in real life?”
I smiled into the microphone.
“No. He’s completely fictional. And if anyone happens to see himself in the character, I’d suggest he start by reflecting on why.”
The audience burst out laughing.
Then a man’s voice came from the front row.
“Is that so?”
My smile froze.
A man in sunglasses and a black face mask lifted his head.
Then he took off the sunglasses.
For one second, I wondered if I had the wrong person.
Then he pulled down the mask.
Nope. It was definitely him.
My ex-husband.
The man who had vanished from my life the moment our divorce papers were signed three years ago.
My first thought was that I had just told fifteen hundred people there was no real-life inspiration behind my books.
My second thought was about Book Three, where the wife deliberately drove past five rest stops until her husband finally died on the highway because he’d held his bladder too long.
Then Book Four, where she tampered with his electric toothbrush and electrocuted him the next morning.
Then Book Six.
Absolutely not. I refused to think about Book Six.
Gavin Reed looked straight at me.
Perfectly calm, he asked, “Ms. Bennett, how are you planning to kill me in Book Nine?”
The entire auditorium went silent.
For half a second.
Then it exploded.
So did something inside me.
Unfortunately, a camera had already zoomed in on my face.
On the giant screen behind me, my carefully curled hair still looked perfect over one shoulder.
The corner of my mouth, however, visibly twitched.
The host recovered faster than I did.
“Sir,” he said, fighting a grin, “are you here to accept an award or turn yourself in?”
The room erupted again.
Gavin answered seriously, “Neither.”
The host blinked. “Then what brings you here?”
Gavin looked at me.
“To correct the record.”
I rolled my eyes.
Fantastic.
That absurd confidence that he was simply stating facts and the rest of the world should adjust accordingly?
Yes.
That was definitely Gavin Reed.
The host was fighting back a grin and clearly enjoying this far too much.
“And what exactly would you like to correct? That Ms. Bennett’s novels do have a real-life inspiration? Or that you have, in fact, died eight times?”
“Many of the male lead’s habits are identical to mine.”
Someone in the audience immediately shouted, “What about the scar on his collarbone?”
My grip tightened around the microphone.
I was the idiot who had given my male lead a six-centimeter surgical scar on his collarbone.
Back then, I’d been so obsessed with realism that I might as well have copied Gavin’s medical records straight into the manuscript.
And now karma had arrived in person.
The host clearly hadn’t had this much fun at an awards ceremony in years.
“So you’ve read the series carefully. Of the eight deaths, which one left the strongest impression?”
Gavin actually considered the question.
“Book Six.”
The auditorium went insane again.
My brain went completely blank.
In Book Six, the wife spent an entire month subtly convincing her husband that he was... inadequate.
Determined to prove there was absolutely nothing wrong with him, he overdosed on erectile dysfunction medication and died.
It was the bestselling book in the entire series.
It was also the one book I had prayed Gavin would never read.
The host had obviously read it too.
He was barely holding it together.
“Why Book Six?”
Gavin said, “Because it wasn’t accurate.”
The auditorium went dead silent.
I immediately lifted my microphone.
“Next question.”
The host ignored me.
“Which part wasn’t accurate?”
Gavin looked directly at me.
“First, I’ve never needed to prove anything. Second, I’ve never taken that kind of medication.”
For two full seconds, nobody made a sound.
Then someone in the front row cracked first.
The laughter spread like an explosion.
Within seconds, people were doubled over in their seats.
Someone yelled, “THE MAN CAME HERE TO CLEAR HIS NAME!”
I stood onstage and stared at Gavin’s completely serious face.
For the first time in my life, I almost admired him.
I’d spent eight novels inventing elaborate ways to make my male lead die without dignity.
Gavin had managed to destroy his own in two sentences.
The host turned to me.
“Ms. Bennett, the alleged real-life inspiration has officially disputed Book Six. Your response?”
Fifteen hundred pairs of eyes swung toward me.
I looked at Gavin.
Three years later, and he was still exactly the same.
Calm and certain, as though the moment he said, That’s inaccurate, reality itself was supposed to submit a corrected version.
I raised the microphone.
“Sir, the male lead in my novels has died eight times, and not once with dignity. If you’re voluntarily claiming that role as yourself, then I have to say... your courage exceeds my imagination.”
The applause thundered through the auditorium.
The host waited for it to die down before asking, “So, Ms. Bennett. Will there be a ninth book?”
“No.”
I answered immediately.
“Why not?”
I looked at Gavin Reed in the front row.
“Because he doesn’t deserve a ninth death.”
The auditorium lost its mind.Several people were already on their feet before the applause had even started.
Applause, screaming, whistles.
Someone in the back shouted, “HE DOESN’T DESERVE IT!”
A few people joined in.
Then half the auditorium was chanting.
“He doesn’t deserve it!”
“He doesn’t deserve it!”
I walked offstage holding my trophy, moving fast enough to suggest someone was chasing me with a weapon.
The second I disappeared behind the curtain, the smile fell off my face.
A hand suddenly grabbed me and dragged me into the backstage lounge.
The door slammed shut.
