Ava Bell POV:

"Sir, there's something else." A junior officer, his voice tight with discomfort, called out to Carter. He was kneeling beside my body, his gaze fixed on my stomach.

My clothes were torn, exposing a faint, barely healed scar just above my navel. It was small, a thin white line against my pale skin. A reminder of a choice I was forced to make. A choice that led to this.

My heart, or where my heart used to be, twisted with a phantom ache. This was it. This was the mark he had refused to see, the truth he had rejected.

Carter turned, his professional mask slipping for a fraction of a second. His eyes narrowed, focusing on the scar. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

"What in God's name happened here?" His voice was low, guttural, filled with a sudden, raw anger. He wasn't looking at me, the victim, but at the injustice, the pure savagery of it all. "Who would do this to another human being?"

If only you knew, Carter. If only you knew the monster you chose to love.

I remembered the day. The doctor' s office. The sterile white walls. The heavy news. Cardiomyopathy. My heart was a ticking bomb. A bone marrow donation, even for my sister, would be a death sentence for me.

I called Carter, my voice trembling. "I can't do it, Carter. I can't donate to Cecelia. The doctors said I have a severe heart condition. It could kill me."

He had listened, or pretended to. Then, his voice, usually so controlled, had exploded. "Don't you dare, Ava! Don't you dare fake some illness to get out of this! Cecelia is dying, and you're her only hope!"

"It's not fake!" I had pleaded, tears streaming down my face. "I have the medical reports, Carter. I'll show you."

"I don't believe you!" he' d roared, his words like a physical blow. He pulled the car over, slamming on the brakes. "Get out, Ava. I can't even look at you right now. You're a manipulative, selfish excuse for a human being."

He left me there, on a deserted street corner, the rain starting to fall. He drove off, leaving me shattered, abandoned. That night, Cecelia' s thugs found me. And now, I was here.

Carter' s anger, his outrage, was for a stranger. He knew nothing of my pain, nothing of the monstrous betrayal that had led to this moment. He was so consumed by his own righteous indignation, so blind to the truth laid bare before him.

"This scar," he said, his voice hardening, "it's just a detail. A medical procedure, perhaps. Don't let it distract you. We need to focus on identifying her and finding the bastards who did this."

He moved away from my body, his focus shifting. "This case is priority one. I want every resource deployed. I want arrests, and I want them fast."

You want justice, Carter? For a stranger? You wouldn't even listen to me when I was alive. You never trusted me.

He trusted Cecelia. Always Cecelia. His beautiful, manipulative fiancée. She was his world, his reason. I was just a burden, a shadow always hovering, always in the way.

I had tried so hard to be enough. To be loved. To be seen. My heart ached for him, yearned for his approval. Even when James, my cousin, had warned me. "Carter's not right for you, Ava. He's too wrapped up in Cecelia's drama. He doesn't see you."

I hadn't believed him. I loved Carter. I believed his love for Cecelia was just misguided affection, a temporary obsession. I thought if I just loved him enough, if I was good enough, he would see me.

But he never did. I was a stand-in, a convenient placeholder for the woman he truly loved, the woman he swore he couldn't live without. My apartment, the one he had chosen for us, was filled with Cecelia's favorite books, her preferred coffee mugs, even a throw blanket she had left behind months ago.

I was an intruder in my own life, a ghost even before I died.

Ava Bell POV:

The sterile white conference room hummed with the low murmur of police officers. Maps of the crime scene were projected onto the wall, red circles marking key areas. Coffee cups littered the table, half-empty, forgotten.

Detective Miller, a seasoned veteran with tired eyes, cleared his throat. "Alright, listen up. Coroner's report just came in."

A palpable tension filled the room. The officers exchanged uneasy glances. They knew what was coming. The details of my final moments.

"Cause of death: blunt force trauma to the head, followed by strangulation. Extensive bruising, consistent with a prolonged struggle. Multiple defensive wounds on her forearms and hands." Miller's voice was flat, clinical, but a hint of disgust crept in. "She fought hard."

My ghostly form hovered in the corner, unable to feel the horror, but remembering it all. The terror. The pain. The desperate, futile struggle for air.

"No clear identification yet," Miller continued. "The body was disfigured. Dental records are being checked, but it's slow going. And we're confident the condo wasn't the primary crime scene. She was moved."

Carter, seated at the head of the table, ran a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair. His jaw was clenched, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table. He was agitated, a barely contained storm.

"I want every lead followed," he said, his voice sharp. "Expand the search radius. Check every abandoned warehouse, every remote property in a fifty-mile radius. I want surveillance footage from every road leading to that condo. Someone saw something."

He paused, his eyes narrowing. "And I want a more thorough autopsy. Every fiber, every trace. And this identification, Miller, it needs to be expedited. This firm represents the developer. We can't have this hanging over our heads."

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "I'm heading back to the crime scene. Keep me updated." He strode out of the room, his long legs carrying him away from the gruesome details, back to the cold, hard logic of the case.

He's so focused on his client, on the case. He still doesn't see me.

I remembered another gift I had given him, a small, silver compass, beautifully engraved with his initials and a tiny, almost invisible, star. It was meant to be a symbol of guidance, of always finding his way back to me.

"So you'll always find your way home," I had whispered, pressing it into his hand. He' d smiled, a rare, genuine smile, and tucked it into his pocket. A fleeting moment of connection.

Then, Cecelia had walked in. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, immediately fixed on the compass. "What's that, darling?" she' d purred, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. She snatched it from his hand. "Oh, a little trinket from Ava? How... quaint."

Her fingers, adorned with expensive rings, had toyed with the delicate silver. Then, with a sudden, vicious twist, she had snapped it in half. The sound had echoed in the silent room, a tiny, metallic death knell.

"Cecelia!" I' d cried out, my voice breaking. I lunged for her, my hands shaking. "Why would you do that?"

Carter had grabbed me, pulling me back with a force that surprised me. "Ava, stop it! What's wrong with you?" he' d demanded, his eyes blazing with anger.

"She broke it, Carter! She broke my gift to you!"

"It's just a cheap piece of junk, Ava! Don't make a scene! Cecelia didn't mean to." He'd turned to her, his voice softening. "Are you alright, sweetheart? She didn't hurt you, did she?"

Cecelia had clung to him, her face buried in his chest, a theatrical sob wracking her body. "She's always so jealous, Carter. Always trying to get between us."

"That's enough, Ava!" Carter' s voice was cold, lethal. "Get out of here. I don't want to see you right now."

He' d locked me in my room, the one he said was mine in our apartment. The compass, broken, lay on the floor, a testament to her cruelty and his blind devotion. I had curled up on the bed, my body aching, my heart shattered. The darkness of the room had mirrored the darkness in my soul. I was trapped, a prisoner in my own life.

Ava Bell POV:

Carter knelt beside my body again, his gloved hand hovering over my cheek. His brow was furrowed, a flicker of something akin to sadness in his eyes.

"No one deserves this," he murmured, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. "No one deserves to die like this."

You say that now, Carter. But when I was alive, you were the one who pushed me towards it. I wondered what he would say if he knew it was me. Would he still claim I deserved better? Or would he twist it, somehow, to be my fault? He was a master at that too.

His gaze drifted from my face, down my arm. He stopped at my wrist. There, a small, faded tattoo. A delicate, winding vine, with tiny, almost imperceptible thorns. It curved around my wrist like a protective bracelet.

I had gotten it years ago, after a particularly harsh rejection from Cecelia. It was a symbol of resilience, of growing despite the pain. It was small, discreet, barely noticeable unless you looked closely.

I remembered Carter' s reaction to it. "What's that monstrosity, Ava?" he' d asked, his eyes filled with disdain. "Looks like something a troubled teenager would get. Can't you hide that with a watch? It's unprofessional."

Now, he stared at it. Will he recognize it? Will it finally click?

He leaned even closer, examining the faded lines. Then, he straightened up. "Just a tattoo," he stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "Probably from years ago. Another irrelevant detail for the report."

My ghost heart sank. Of course. Irrelevant.

"Mr. Rios, we found this inside her." A forensic technician, a young man with glasses, approached, holding up a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside, nestled among folds of what looked like torn fabric, was a small, worn sketchbook.

Carter took it, his eyes narrowing in professional curiosity. He didn't open it immediately. "Analyze it," he ordered. "Every page. See if there are any clues, any names, anything that can help us identify her."

Just then, his phone vibrated. A distinct, melodic ringtone. Cecelia's. It was the only custom ringtone he had. He snatched it from his pocket, his stern expression immediately softening.

"Cecelia, darling. Are you alright?" His voice was laced with concern, a stark contrast to the cold efficiency he used for everyone else.

"Oh, Carter," Cecelia's voice, high-pitched and fragile, drifted from the phone. "I'm just so worried. About everything. This... this murder. It's so close to us. Are you safe? And Ava... have you heard from her?"

Her concern was a performance. I knew it. He didn't.

"I' m fine, sweetheart. Don't worry. I'll make sure you're safe," Carter promised, his eyes scanning the desolate condo, as if searching for an unseen threat to her. "As for Ava... she's probably just being dramatic again. Trying to get attention. You know how she is."

"Yes," Cecelia sighed dramatically. "Always causing trouble. I just hope she hasn't done anything to endanger herself, or worse, you, my love."

"She wouldn't dare," Carter scoffed. "She knows her place. If she's pulled one of her stunts, she'll regret it. Just focus on resting, Cecelia. I love you. I'll be home as soon as I can."

He hung up, the tenderness vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He looked at the sketchbook in his hand, his eyes hardening.

"Find out what this girl was up to," he commanded the technician, referring to my lifeless body. "And quickly. We can't have this distraction on our hands."

Distraction. That's all I ever was to him. A distraction. Even in death. His words, overheard by my observing spirit, were a fresh wound, a confirmation of his unwavering blindness.