A Hundred Kisses To My Grave

1 The night before our engagement, my fiancé, Harrison Crawford, vanished, and his friends told me he had turned into a frog. Sloane Kensington—his lifelong best friend who thrived on being the "only girl in the boys’ club"—was the one who delivered the news. She stood in the Crawfords’ sprawling solarium and told me it was a heavily guarded, generational family curse. Only a woman who truly loved him, who was willing to kiss him once a day for a hundred days, could break the hex and turn him back into a man. It sounded utterly deranged. A sick, elitist joke. But the thing inside the glass terrarium was a wild, hideous toad, its back covered in swollen, pulsing parotoid glands. When I first voiced my disbelief, Sloane had simply sneered. "Disgusted already? I always told him you were only after the Crawford money." Harrison’s mother, Eleanor, had stood behind her, her face an unreadable mask of wealthy matriarchal ice. "Miss a single day, Hazel, and my son remains a beast for the rest of his life. Your choice." Out of sheer, blind desperation to save the man I loved, I swallowed my revulsion and kissed that repulsive creature for ninety-nine days. By now, the corners of my mouth had ulcerated into open, rotting sores. Raised, weeping red rashes mapped their way across my arms and chest. When I showed Sloane, she waved it off, claiming it was merely a sign that the curse was finally breaking. On the ninety-ninth day, burning with a severe fever, I arrived at the Crawford estate hours earlier than usual. Only to find Harrison Crawford sitting perfectly healthy on the velvet living room sofa, watching a live security feed of me kissing the toad. Sloane was leaning against his shoulder, laughing so hard she was out of breath. She dragged the video scrubber back, playing the footage on a loop. "Look at her mouth. It’s practically rotting off, and she’s still puckering up. God, the lengths she’ll go to marry into this family. True love conquers all, right?" Harrison pinched the bridge of his nose, looking mildly exhausted. He pulled a velvet box from his pocket, flicking it open to reveal a massive diamond ring. "How else was I supposed to know if she actually loved me for me?" he murmured. "Anyway. Once tomorrow is over, this whole thing is a closed chapter. I’ll make my grand reappearance and reward her with the title of Mrs. Crawford." A closed chapter. I had traded my life for ninety-nine days of humiliation and agony, and to him, it was just the turning of a page. Right then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a final text from Dr. Evans, my physician. [The pathogens and neurotoxins have breached your central nervous system. It’s systemic now, Hazel. There is no cure.] Staring through the crack in the door at the smug satisfaction in Harrison’s eyes, a faint, breathy laugh escaped my cracked lips. I wouldn’t live long enough to accept his little reward. I didn't push the living room doors open. Instead, I turned on my heel and walked toward the glass solarium at the back of the estate. Eleanor Crawford was already there waiting for me, a sleek smartphone mounted on a ring-light tripod, the lens pointed directly at the terrarium. "You're late today," Eleanor clipped, adjusting the angle. "It’s the final stretch. Don't cause a scene now." Inside the tank, the grayish-brown lump sat heavily, its toxic glands protruding like morbid tumors. For three months, I had lied to myself, convincing my fragile mind that it was just an ugly exterior—that Harrison’s soul was trapped inside, watching me, loving me for saving him. I didn't need to lie to myself anymore. "Mrs. Crawford," I said, my voice hoarse. "I'm not doing it." Eleanor froze. "Excuse me?" I looked at the tank. "It’s not Harrison. It’s a wild, toxic toad." Before the words fully settled, rapid footsteps echoed down the limestone corridor. Sloane came rushing in, her perfectly styled blowout slightly disheveled. She must have sprinted the entire way from the living room. "What the hell is wrong with you, Hazel?" Sloane snapped, chest heaving. "You have one day left and you're throwing a tantrum now?" I just looked at her. "The curse is fake. Isn't it?" Sloane’s eyes darted away for a fraction of a second before her trademark sneer returned. "I knew it. You forced yourself through ninety-nine days, realized you couldn't stomach it anymore, and now you’re fishing for an excuse. You just can’t handle the fact that he can’t give you a fancy title right now, can you?" Eleanor’s face darkened. "Hazel, this family has been more than generous to you. If you walk out that door today and Harrison is trapped like this forever, you are a murderer." A murderer. I almost laughed out loud. Who was really killing who here? "Say whatever you want," I whispered, pulling my tote bag higher onto my aching shoulder. "The wedding is off." Sloane lunged forward, her manicured fingers digging viciously into my arm. "We aren't done talking! Where do you think you’re going?" I turned my head, staring at her with total apathy. "Let go." Sloane’s grip only tightened. "I’m not letting you ruin this! You are going to kiss it today!" She yanked me backward. At the same time, Eleanor shoved my shoulder from behind. "Stop being so stubborn!" the older woman hissed. I was already trembling, weak from a fever pushing a hundred and three. The sudden force tripped me. I stumbled, my vision blurring, and my temple slammed violently against the iron corner of the terrarium stand. The world went black. I slid down the cold glass and collapsed onto the marble floor. Right before I lost consciousness completely, I heard Eleanor’s exasperated sigh. "Oh, please. Not this manipulative act again." I didn’t know how much time had passed before the frantic thud of approaching footsteps jolted my fading senses. My eyelids were impossibly heavy, glued shut, but my hearing remained intact. "What happened?" It was Harrison. He had finally emerged from his little surveillance room—only after I was unconscious on the floor. Sloane’s voice wavered, losing its sharp edge. "She… she lost her footing. But don't panic, she’s definitely faking it. She probably figured out there were cameras and decided to play the victim." A hand gently cupped my jaw. Harrison’s fingers lingered near the corners of my mouth. He stayed perfectly still for a long time. "Why is her mouth rotting like this?" he demanded, his voice tight. I felt him push up the sleeve of my cardigan. The red rashes on my arm had merged into a singular, swollen map of infection. In several places, the skin had blistered and broken, oozing pale fluid. "Is this part of the act too?" Harrison asked softly. Sloane didn’t answer. I felt Harrison lift his head, his presence shifting toward the terrarium. "Sloane. That frog. You said you got it from an exotic pet breeder in the city. Are you absolutely certain it isn't poisonous?" Two seconds of suffocating silence ticked by. I could clearly hear Sloane swallow hard. "Positive," she said quickly. "It’s just… a little uniquely bred. It’s a Pacman frog, they’re huge on TikTok. I looked it up, no venom. She’s just got a weak immune system, Harry. It’s an allergic reaction. You know how dramatic girls get." Harrison didn’t say a word. Even with my eyes closed, I could feel the weight of his gaze bouncing between the glass tank and my battered body. Eleanor finally spoke up, annoyed. "Harrison, don’t let her manipulate you. Five minutes ago she was screaming about canceling the wedding. The second you step out of the shadows, she wins." The hand cupping my cheek slowly pulled away. Harrison stood up. "Have Helen move her to the guest bedroom. Give her some ibuprofen to bring the fever down," he ordered flatly. "When she wakes up, tell her tomorrow’s ceremony is proceeding as planned. On the hundredth day, she finishes the kiss." When I finally opened my eyes, it was three in the afternoon. Helen, the estate’s longtime housekeeper, was hovering by the bedside. Seeing me awake, she hurriedly brought over a glass of lukewarm water. "Miss Hazel," she fretted, wringing her hands. "The fever reducers aren't doing a thing. Please, let me have the driver take you to the ER." I shook my head slowly. There was no point. Dr. Evans had been explicit. The toxins had breached the central nervous system. I was out of time. Rather than dying hooked up to machines in a sterile triage room, I needed to get my affairs in order. I asked Helen for a pen and a legal pad. Sitting up against the headboard, I drafted a quick email to my lawyer, authorizing the immediate transfer of the condo and mutual funds the Crawfords had gifted me back to their estate. Then, I wrote down my bank PINs, my modest life insurance policy number, and the location of the spare key to my old apartment. Finally, I dialed a local funeral home. "I need the most basic pine urn you have," I told the director, my breath hitching in my chest. "And a closed casket. No viewing. My mother has a weak heart. I don't want her to see me like this." The line went quiet for a few seconds. "Ma'am," the gentle voice replied, "does your family know about your... condition?" I looked down at the weeping, infected skin on my arms. "No." I swallowed the lump in my throat. "When the time comes, please just tell her that I didn't suffer." Outside the bedroom, in the surveillance room, Harrison stood inches from the monitors, his brow furrowing deeper and deeper. The room had no audio, so he couldn't hear the phone call, but he watched me feverishly writing on the notepad. Sloane glanced at the screen, rolling her eyes. "Canceling the wedding, sorting out her ‘assets.’ She’s just trying to scare you with all this end-of-life theater. I guarantee, the second you walk in there, she’ll miraculously recover." Harrison stared at my ghostly pale face on the screen. "She doesn't look like she's acting." Sloane’s expression tightened. She abruptly pushed away from the desk. "Let’s test that theory, then." Ten minutes later, the guest room door flew open. Sloane marched in, carrying the glass terrarium. Following closely behind her were Tristan, Parker, and Declan—Harrison’s fraternity brothers and inner circle since prep school. Sloane slammed the heavy tank onto my bedside table. The sudden impact terrified the toad; it puffed up defensively, its toxic glands swelling to the size of marbles. I instinctively shrank back against the headboard. Sloane smirked. "Oh good, Sleeping Beauty is awake. Let’s get this hundredth kiss over with now. Save everyone the headache." I gripped the edge of the duvet, my knuckles stark white. "Get that out of here. That thing is poisonous." Tristan scoffed, leaning against the doorframe. "You were making out with it just fine yesterday, Hazel. Suddenly it’s toxic today?" Parker crossed his arms. "Look, if Harrison stays stuck like this, how does that benefit you?" Declan was more direct. He pulled out his iPhone, hitting record and shoving the lens in my face. "You better cooperate, Hazel. Otherwise, this video goes straight to the blogs. Everyone will know you faked your way through ninety-nine days for the Crawford trust fund, and then left Harrison to rot." I looked at the four of them, my vision swimming. "Harrison isn't a frog," I rasped, every syllable scraping my throat like glass. "You all know. Don't you?" The room went dead silent. Then, they exchanged a look and burst into uproarious laughter. Sloane laughed so hard she had to wipe a tear from her mascara. "Now she’s having delusions? Hazel, the lies you’ll invent just to get out of this." She ripped the mesh lid off the terrarium, reached in, and shoved the warty, thrashing toad directly toward my face. The familiar, putrid stench of swamp and venom flooded my nostrils. My stomach violently rebelled. "Get away from me!" I screamed, slapping my hand out. Crash. I knocked the tank out of her hands. It shattered onto the Persian rug. The toad hit the floor and hopped frantically beneath the bedframe. Tristan’s face contorted in rage. "Are you out of your mind? That’s Harrison!" He lunged forward, pinning my shoulders down against the mattress. Parker immediately grabbed my wrists, locking them to my sides. Sloane dropped to her knees, scooped the toad off the floor, and brought it inches from my face again. "Will one kiss kill you?" Sloane hissed, her eyes wild. "You skip today, and he’s an animal forever." Out in the hallway, Harrison’s face finally cracked. He reached for the brass doorknob, but an urgent voice crackled in his earpiece. Sloane had slipped it into her pocket before coming in. “Don't come in here, Harry. She’s trying to force your hand.” The toad’s slick, pulsating skin was millimeters from my lips. I thrashed wildly against the boys’ grip. Suddenly, a blinding, agonizing spike of pain drove through my chest. It felt like someone had reached into my ribcage and crushed my lungs. The faces above me began to warp and duplicate. I opened my mouth, but instead of a scream, only a broken, wet gasp came out. "I need... to see... Harrison..." Tristan’s hands suddenly stiffened on my shoulders. "Guys. Does she look right to you?" I dragged my eyes toward the heavy oak door. "Harry..." The door cracked open an inch. But before Harrison could step through, Sloane shoved the toad onto the nightstand and sprinted for the door, slamming it shut and blocking it with her body. "You can't come in!" she told him through the wood. "If you step foot in here now, she wins. Yesterday she tried to call off the wedding, and today she just happens to have a medical emergency the exact second she knows you’re watching? It’s a setup." Harrison looked back at the hallway monitor. On the screen, I had slipped from the bed, collapsed onto the rug, my hand clawing frantically at my chest. His chest tightened. "But she looks genuinely sick, Sloane. I need to see her." Sloane bit her lip, leaning against the door. "She knows there are cameras in there, Harry. She’s putting on a show for you. You held out for ninety-nine days. Are you really going to let her manipulate you at the finish line?" The silence outside the door stretched into eternity. Then, slowly, the sound of his leather loafers retreated down the hall. Fading. Fading. Gone. I lay prone on the carpet, every breath heavier and shallower than the last. Tristan was the first to back away, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sloane... she’s shaking pretty bad. Are you sure she’s okay?" Sloane casually used the toe of her designer heel to nudge the toad away from my leg, scooping it into a spare plastic container Helen had left on the desk. "She’s fine," Sloane dismissed coldly. "Harrison said to let her cool off." Parker nervously scratched his head. "Maybe we should call Dr. Evans, just in case..." "In case what?" Sloane glared at him. "You send her to the ER, she gets a fake anxiety diagnosis, and then sues the Crawfords for emotional distress. You want to take the fall for that?" Parker shut his mouth. Declan pocketed his phone, muttering, "What a buzzkill." One by one, they filed out of the room. Right before pulling the door shut, Sloane turned back and flashed me a chilling, triumphant smile. Click. The deadbolt locked from the outside. "Tomorrow at 10 AM, Hazel. In the solarium," her voice muffled through the wood. "There’s nowhere left to run." Once the sun went down, the darkness took my vision with it. The crystal chandelier on the ceiling fractured—first one fixture, then three, then a blur of shattered light. My fingers went entirely numb; I couldn’t even grip the edge of the blanket to pull myself up. I wanted to call Dr. Evans. My phone was sitting on the nightstand, barely three feet away. I crawled across the carpet for what felt like hours. I never reached it. At 1:00 AM, the deadbolt softly clicked open. Someone stepped into the pitch-black room. They didn't turn on the lights, but the distinct scent of cedar and expensive bergamot washed over me. I knew exactly who it was. Harrison scooped my limp body off the floor and laid me back onto the mattress. He brushed his hand against my forehead, and I felt him flinch violently. "Why are you burning up like this?" he whispered. He grabbed the blister pack of ibuprofen on the nightstand. It was entirely full. "You won’t even take your medicine. What exactly is your endgame here, Hazel?" He kept his voice low, sounding furious with me—and perhaps, furious with himself. Then, the moonlight caught the yellow legal pad on the desk. The paper I had written earlier. My bank PINs, my life insurance, the phone number for the funeral home. Harrison picked it up. His knuckles turned bone-white in the dark. "Are you really trying to guilt-trip me with this morbid crap?" he ground out. He crumpled the paper into a tight ball and hurled it into the wastebasket. "I’m right here, Hazel. Who are you putting this show on for?" I wanted to tell him so badly. It’s not a show. It’s real. I’m dying. But my jaw locked. When I opened my mouth, only a faint, whistling gasp escaped. He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time. So long that, for a fleeting, foolish second, I thought he might stay. Seven years ago, when I was hospitalized with acute gastroenteritis, he had sat in that exact position all night, refusing to close his eyes. When I begged him to go home and rest, he had kissed my knuckles and said, "If you wake up in the dark and I’m not here, you’ll be scared." Now, I was awake in the dark, and he was right beside me. And I had never been more terrified in my life. Harrison reached into his jacket, pulled out the velvet box, and removed the diamond ring. He pressed the cold metal into my palm, gently curling my stiff fingers around it one by one. "Once you kiss it tomorrow, it’s all over," he murmured into the silence. "I’ll come out. I’ll get on one knee. Hazel, just hold on for one more day." He leaned down and pressed a remarkably gentle kiss against my feverish forehead. Then he stood up, walked out, and locked the door behind him. He didn't know. One day was an eternity I didn't have. At 3:17 AM, my heart stopped beating. I felt myself pull away, floating upward until I was hovering near the ceiling, staring down at the woman on the bed. Her mouth was a ruined, blackened mess of necrotic tissue. Raised red welts covered her lifeless body, and her stiff, blue fingers were still curled tightly around the diamond ring. Harrison’s ultimate reward. Day 100. 9:00 AM. The Crawford solarium had been transformed into a lavish wedding chapel. Thousands of white roses lined the aisle leading up to a crystal pedestal where the terrarium sat. A towering champagne pyramid gleamed in the morning sun. Behind it all, a custom gold-leaf banner read: [100 Days of True Love. The Prince Returns.] Hovering in the corner of the ceiling, I looked down at the sheer absurdity of it all. Harrison stood by the arched doorway in a bespoke Tom Ford suit. He had undone and redone his silk tie three times, his hands unusually clumsy. Sloane walked over, swatting his hands away to adjust the knot herself. "Nervous?" Harrison didn't smile. He stared blankly at the roses for a moment before speaking. "That frog. What exact shop did you say you bought it from?" Sloane’s fingers froze against his collar. "Why are you bringing that up now?" "I couldn't sleep last night. I did some reading," Harrison said, his voice flat. "Some toad secretions are incredibly toxic. I want Elliot to go down to the breeder and ask some questions." Sloane forced a bright, plastic smile, smoothing his lapels. "It was just some random online breeder. The page is probably deleted by now. Stop overthinking it, Harry. You just let her pathetic little act spook you last night. I promise you, the second she finishes the kiss and you step out, she’ll be throwing herself into your arms. She’ll be the most energetic person in this room." Harrison stared at her intensely for two seconds. He didn't push it. But as he turned away, I watched him pull out his phone and fire off a text to his executive assistant. [Look into the exact exotic pet store I told Sloane to pick up that Pacman frog from a hundred days ago. I need the name.] At exactly 10:00 AM, the string quartet began to play. Eleanor, Tristan, Parker, and Declan were all seated. A professional videographer hoisted a RED camera onto his shoulder, framing the terrarium perfectly. Sloane tapped a microphone, beaming at the crowd. "A hundred days of devotion, and today, we finally witness the power of true love! Please welcome our beautiful bride-to-be... Hazel!" Polite, expectant applause echoed through the glass room. No one walked through the door. Ten seconds passed. Thirty seconds. The applause awkwardly fizzled out. Tristan leaned over to Parker, whispering, "Did she actually bail?" Sloane rolled her eyes, her smile straining. "I deadbolted the room myself. Where could she possibly go? She’s just playing hard to get. She wants Harrison to go beg her." Eleanor’s face was thunderous. "A room full of our most important friends waiting on her. How utterly classless." Harrison pulled out his phone, his jaw clenching. [Come out.] [Hazel, I’m waiting for you.] Back in the guest bedroom, my phone buzzed incessantly against the mahogany nightstand. The body on the bed didn't flinch. He called. Once, twice, three times. It went straight to voicemail. Finally, Harrison’s composure snapped. He shoved his phone into his pocket and stormed out of the solarium, his heavy footsteps echoing furiously all the way to the guest wing. He jammed the key into the deadbolt, throwing the door open so hard it rebounded off the wall. "Hazel, it is the hundredth day. Exactly how long are you going to drag this out?" he snapped, his chest heaving. "I am standing right here. What more do you want from me?" The figure on the bed lay with her back to him, unresponsive. Furious, he crossed the room in three massive strides, grabbed my shoulder, and pulled violently. My body flipped over, completely rigid, rolling off the edge of the mattress and crashing heavily onto the floor right at his feet. The diamond ring slipped from between my stiff, pale fingers, bouncing against the toe of his polished Italian leather shoe with a sharp clink. Harrison froze. My eyes were half-open, staring blankly at the ceiling. The blood around my mouth had long since dried into a terrifying, oxidized black crust. He slowly dropped to his knees. His trembling hand reached out, brushing against my cheek. Ice cold. "Hazel?" He pressed his fingers under my nose. Nothing. He slammed two fingers against my carotid artery. His hand began to shake so violently he couldn't keep it steady. "Doctor! Get a fucking doctor!" The estate’s on-call physician burst into the room two minutes later. One look at the scene, and all the color drained from the man’s face. He peeled back my eyelid, then examined the necrotic tissue around my mouth and the weeping blisters on my forearms. "Mr. Crawford," the doctor said softly, stepping back. "She’s gone." "Do something!" Harrison roared. "Rigor mortis has fully set in. She’s been deceased for at least six to seven hours," the doctor explained grimly. "This presents as acute bufotoxin poisoning. Massive neurological failure. The toxins infiltrated her central nervous system days ago. She should have been in an ICU." Harrison remained on his knees, his mind fracturing. He slowly turned his head toward the doorway. Sloane stood paralyzed in the hall, her face the color of ash. "No... no, that’s impossible," she stammered, backing away. "It was just a designer frog..." Before she could finish the sentence, Harrison’s phone rang. It was Elliot, his assistant. In the deafening silence of the room, the speakerphone echoed perfectly. "Mr. Crawford, I found the shop," Elliot’s voice crackled. "The harmless albino Pacman frog you ordered a hundred days ago? Sloane Kensington returned it the very same day she picked it up." "She paid the owner entirely under the table to swap it for a wild-caught Colorado River toad. The owner explicitly warned her..." Elliot took a shaky breath. "He warned her it was highly venomous."