Left To Die: Now The CEO Begs

On our third anniversary, my husband Marcus walked out on our dinner because his "best friend" Izzy had a crisis.

That was the ninth time he chose her call over my presence. According to the sick bet I made with her years ago, it was game over.

But the true end didn't come in a restaurant. It happened inside a plummeting elevator.

When the cable snapped and the emergency brakes slammed us to a halt, I lay trapped under debris, my leg fractured and head bleeding. Izzy, terrified but scratched-free, screamed for help.

Marcus didn't even look at me.