My Narcissist Husband Hired a Hitman to Eliminate Me – All for the Insurance Money

My narcissist husband hired a hitman to eliminate me for insurance money.

The hitman was my ex-boyfriend.

I’m sitting in my kitchen with a gun pointed at my face, and the man holding it is crying harder than I am.

My name is Amber. I’m 32 years old, and I genuinely thought the worst thing that would happen to me that night was burning dinner.

I was wrong.

So, so wrong.

Let me take you back twenty minutes.

I was standing at the stove, stirring pasta sauce, half distracted and thinking about nothing in particular, when I heard the back door open. Not the front door. The back door, the one that leads to our tiny backyard that nobody ever uses except to take out the trash.

My husband Derek was supposed to be at a work conference in Chicago. He had left two days earlier with his rolling suitcase and that smug, self-satisfied smile he always wore when he thought he was getting away with something.

I froze with the wooden spoon in my hand.

Behind me, the pasta water started boiling over, hissing against the stovetop, but I didn’t move to fix it. I could hear footsteps in the hallway. Heavy footsteps. Not Derek’s. Derek wore expensive loafers that clicked sharply against the hardwood floors. These were boots. Solid, deliberate, unfamiliar.

My phone was upstairs in the bedroom, charging.

Of course it was.

The footsteps stopped just outside the kitchen. I tightened my grip on the spoon like it might somehow help me, like I could defend myself with marinara sauce and panic.

Then he walked in.

And I knew him immediately.

Those dark brown eyes. The scar above his left eyebrow from when he fell off his bike in ninth grade. The way his jaw tightened when he was stressed.

“Marcus.”

He looked just as shocked to see me as I was to see him.

We stood there staring at each other, frozen in place, for what felt like forever but was probably only a few seconds. He was holding a gun, but it wasn’t pointed at me yet. It hung loosely at his side, like he had forgotten he was even holding it.

“Amber.”

He said my name like it hurt.

“What are you doing in my house?” I asked, my voice trembling despite my effort to keep it steady.

He didn’t answer right away. He just kept staring at me with that same expression I remembered from ten years ago, the one he wore when he told me he was enlisting and leaving town. The look that said he was about to break my heart.

“You need to leave,” I said. “Right now. Before I call the police.”

“Your phone’s upstairs,” he said quietly.

That was the moment everything changed.

That was when I understood this wasn’t random.

“How do you know that?”

He glanced at the gun, then back at me.

“I’ve been watching the house for three days.”

The pasta water overflowed completely, spilling across the stove, but I didn’t move.

“Why?” I asked.

“Your husband hired me.”

I laughed.

It came out sharp and wrong, because the alternative was screaming.

“Derek hired you to do what? Change the locks?”

Marcus raised the gun slightly, not aiming it directly at me, just enough to make it impossible to ignore.

“To kill you.”

The wooden spoon slipped from my hand and hit the floor.

“That’s not funny, Marcus.”

“It’s not a joke.”

I backed into the counter, the heat from the stove burning against my back.

“You’re lying.”

“Two million dollar life insurance policy,” he said. “He took it out eight months ago. Called it a ‘situation that needed handling.’ Found me through someone who knows someone. He doesn’t know who I am. Doesn’t know we have history. Just knows I get results.”

My legs felt like they were giving out.

“You’re a hitman.”

“I prefer private security consultant,” he said flatly. “But yeah. Essentially.”

“And Derek…” I couldn’t finish.

“Your husband wants you dead, Amber.”

He crouched down a few feet away from me, lowering the gun slightly as if even he needed distance from what he was saying.

“He gave me half up front. Twenty-five thousand. I get the rest when it’s done.”

I slid down to the floor. The tile was cold beneath me. The smell of burnt sauce filled the air.

“I need to call the police.”

“And tell them what?” he asked. “You have no proof. He used a burner phone. Paid in cash. Met me in a parking garage. He was careful.”

“Then I’ll leave. I’ll disappear.”

“He’ll just hire someone else,” Marcus said. “Someone who won’t hesitate.”

I looked at him properly then.

Older. Harder. Lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Hair cut short. But still Marcus.

The boy who used to walk me home.

The boy who broke my heart.

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked. “Why didn’t you just do it?”

“Because it’s you.”

He said it like that explained everything.

Maybe it did.