Ava POV

The pain stopped.

That was the first thing I noticed.

The burning in my lungs, the bruising on my knees, the crushing weight in my chest—it all just vanished.

I was floating.

I looked down and saw a woman huddled in the corner of the emergency room, clutching a small, limp body. Her hair was matted with rain, her shoulders shaking violently. It took me a disorienting moment to realize that woman was me.

And the boy... Jeremy.

He looked so peaceful now. The terrifying purple hue was fading from his lips, replaced by a pale, waxen stillness. I felt a strange sensation wash over me, like a heavy, waterlogged coat slipping off my shoulders. It was over. The fear was gone. The desperation was gone.

I watched as the woman—my empty vessel—slumped over, unconscious or worse.

Then, the double doors swung open.

Benedict walked in.

He was wearing his pristine white coat, looking exhausted but undeniably handsome. He rubbed his temples, that familiar gesture he always used when he had a headache.

"Doctor Sinclair, we need you in Bay 4," a nurse called out urgently.

He nodded—professional, detached. He strode right past the corner where my body lay curled around our son. He walked right past us.

"Benedict!" I screamed, but no sound tore from my throat. I was smoke. I was air.

He paused, frowning slightly, looking around as if he had heard a whisper caught in the draft. But then he shook his head and kept walking.

He approached a gurney where a nurse was frantically checking vitals.

"What do we have?" he asked.

"Possible snake bite," the nurse reported, her voice tight. "Brought in D.O.A. No ID on the mother yet. She collapsed right after intake."

Benedict glanced at the small form on the gurney—my Jeremy. He looked at the small, pale hand hanging off the side.

"Benedict, look at him! Look at his face! It is your son!"

He did not look at the face. He looked at the chart.

"Time of death?" he asked.

"Ten minutes ago," the nurse said softly.

He sighed. A heavy, tired sigh.

"Process the paperwork. Call the coroner. I have a heart attack patient in Bay 2."

He turned away. Just like that, he reduced our son—the boy who had his eyes, the boy he had sworn to protect—to a statistic. A paperwork problem to be filed away.

As he turned, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.

I drifted closer, compelled by a force I could not control. It was the note I had written him. The one I had shoved into his mailbox earlier today when my phone died, begging him to meet us here.

Yvonne must have found it and given it to him.

He smoothed it out against his palm.

"Jeremy is sick. Please meet us at the hospital."

He scoffed. A short, dismissive sound that echoed in the silence of my soul.

"Unbelievable," he muttered to himself. "She uses the kid as an excuse to interrupt my shift again."

He crumpled the note back into a tight ball and tossed it into the trash can next to the nurses' station.

I felt something snap inside me. Not a heart, because I did not have one anymore. But something deeper. The last thread that tied me to him. The last shred of hope that he was just misguided, that he was merely a victim of his mother's control.

He was not a victim. He was a monster.

I tried to fly away. I wanted to leave this wretched place, to follow Jeremy wherever he had gone.

But I could not move.

An invisible chain yanked me back. I was tethered to Benedict. I floated inches behind his shoulder as he walked down the sterile hallway.

"Hey, Ben," another doctor, Dr. Jensen, said, falling into step beside him. "Rough night?"

"You have no idea," Benedict said, his voice flat. "The patient load is insane. And Yvonne is stressing about the engagement party."

Jensen lowered his voice, glancing around conspiratorially. "Speaking of Yvonne... the nurses were saying she was acting weird at the entrance earlier. Screaming at some homeless woman?"

Benedict rolled his eyes.

"You know how sensitive she gets when she is tired. She is just protective of the hospital protocols."

He defended her. He defended the woman who had barred us from entry, leaving his son to die on the floor.

I watched him walk, and I felt nothing but a cold, hollow silence. I did not love him. I did not hate him. He was just a stranger who had killed us both.

I watched as orderlies came to take my body away. I watched them cover Jeremy's face with a white sheet.

I tried to scream one last time, but the sound died in my throat. I was stuck here. Stuck with him.

Benedict POV

The next morning, the hospital vibrated with a suppressed, grim energy.

I hovered in the corner of Benedict's office, watching him stare blankly at his computer screen. The internal incident report was open, glowing with cold, blue light.

Subject: Deceased Pediatric Patient.

Cause of Death: Anaphylactic shock secondary to venomous snake bite. Delayed treatment.

Benedict scrolled down, his movements mechanical.

Patient Name: Jeremy Fuller.

His hand paralyzed over the mouse.

Fuller.

My last name.

He blinked—once, twice—as if trying to clear a hallucination. Then, his eyes drifted to the date of birth.

July 14th.

I saw the color drain from his face, leaving him ashen. July 14th. Jeremy's birthday was next week.

A memory flickered, sharp and painful. I remembered finding a browser tab open on Benedict's laptop months ago—a search for a limited-edition Ultraman figure. He knew. Somewhere in the deep recesses of that self-absorbed brain, he had actually remembered his son's birthday.

"Jeremy," he whispered.

The name sounded foreign on his tongue, heavy with a sudden, crushing weight.

My spirit hovered near the ceiling, looking down at the man I had once loved. I felt a surge of grief, not for him, but for Jeremy. My baby had wanted that toy so badly.

A sharp knock broke the silence, and the door swung open before Benedict could answer.

Yvonne entered, carrying two steaming coffees. She looked fresh, rested, and immaculate. A perfect mask.

"Morning, darling," she chirped, her voice jarringly bright against the gloom. "I heard we lost a kid last night. So sad."

I wanted to claw her eyes out. I wanted to smash the scalding coffee cups against the wall and scream the truth into her face.

Benedict looked up at her, his eyes unfocused, swimming in shock.

"The boy..." Benedict’s voice cracked. "His name was Jeremy."

Yvonne did not flinch. Her heartbeat didn't even skip a rhythm. I could sense it from where I floated; she was ice cold, a void where a soul should be.

"Oh? That is a common name."

Benedict rubbed his face aggressively, trying to wake himself up.

"Jensen said there was a woman... at the entrance."

Yvonne set the coffee down on the desk with a deliberate, calm click. She walked over and placed her hands on his shoulders, massaging the tension with practiced ease.

"Ben, you are overthinking. It was a crazy night," she cooed, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "That woman was unhinged. She was screaming obscenities. Francis had to step in to protect the staff."

The lies spilled from her lips as easily as breath.

Benedict leaned back into her touch. He wanted to believe her. God, he wanted to believe her. It was infinitely easier to accept the lie than to face the devastating truth staring him in the face.

"You are right," he murmured, his resistance crumbling. "I am just tired."

Suddenly, the office door burst open.

There was no knock. No polite warning.

An older man in a bespoke, tailored suit strode in, bringing a storm with him. The air in the room shifted instantly, heavy with authority and rage. It was William Sinclair, the hospital CEO. Benedict's father.

He looked furious. But beneath the fury, he looked terrified.

"Dad?" Benedict stood up, startled. "What is wrong?"

William ignored him entirely. He marched straight to the desk and slammed a piece of paper down on top of the incident report.

SLAM.

It was a missing persons flyer. My face. Jeremy's face.

"Where are they?" William demanded, his voice shaking with a volatile mix of fear and anger.

Benedict looked at the flyer, then back at his father, confusion clouding his grief.

"I... I do not understand."

"Security cameras," William barked, his eyes darting to Yvonne like a predator spotting prey. "I just watched the footage from last night. A woman matching her description came in carrying a child. And she never checked out."

Yvonne's hands stilled on Benedict's shoulders. The massage stopped.

William turned his full, withering gaze onto Yvonne. It was a look that could peel the paint off the walls.

"And the footage shows you, Yvonne. It shows you and your brother blocking the door."

I felt a sudden, sharp pull in my chest. My father-in-law—my real family, in spirit if not in blood—was here. He was angry. He was looking for us.

For the first time since I died, amidst the cold fluorescent lights and the stench of betrayal, I felt a tiny spark of warmth.

Benedict POV

The silence in the office was suffocating.

Benedict looked from the flyer to his father, then to Yvonne. His gaze darted back and forth, confusion warping his features.

"Dad, what are you saying?" Benedict asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Yvonne would never..."

"Shut up, Benedict," William snapped. He did not look at his son. His lethal glare was fixed solely on Yvonne.

"Where is my grandson?" William asked. His voice was quiet now, which was far more terrifying than his shouting.

Yvonne let out a breathy, incredulous laugh. She walked around the desk, putting distance between herself and the CEO.

"Grandson? William, surely you do not believe the lies that woman told you," she scoffed. "She was a fling. A mistake Benedict made years ago."

"She was his wife in every way that mattered!" William roared. "And that boy was my blood!"

Yvonne crossed her arms. Her mask was slipping. The sweet fiancée was gone; the cornered animal was emerging.

"She’s a gold digger," Yvonne spat. "She came here last night screaming, making a scene. She was high on something! I did what I had to do to protect the hospital's reputation."

"You blocked a dying child from receiving care!"

"I followed protocol!" Yvonne yelled back. "The ER was at capacity! We can’t just let every hysterical woman off the street waltz in because she claims to know the CEO's son!"

Benedict picked up the flyer. His hands were trembling.

"She left me a note," he whispered. His eyes drifted to the trash can where he had tossed it earlier.

Yvonne's eyes darted to the trash can, then back to Benedict.

"She was harassing you, Ben. Just like she always does. I was trying to protect you."

"Protect me?" Benedict looked at her—really looked at her, as if seeing a stranger. "By letting my son die?"

"Oh, stop it!" Yvonne threw her hands up. "It was a snake bite! He was probably dead before she even got here. Why is everyone acting like I murdered him? He was a common patient!"

A common patient.

The words hung in the air.

I watched Benedict's face crumble. I saw the moment his heart broke. Not for me. Not yet. But for the realization of the monster he was sleeping with.

William stepped forward.

"I have launched a formal investigation," he announced. "The police are on their way to seize the security tapes. And you, Yvonne... you are suspended. Immediately."

Yvonne's face turned purple.

"You cannot do that! My family—"

"Your family is the only reason you aren’t in handcuffs yet!" William shouted. "Get out of my hospital."

Yvonne grabbed her purse. She looked at Benedict, expecting him to intervene. Expecting him to save her.

"Ben?" she whimpered, trying to summon crocodile tears.

Benedict did not look up from the flyer. He was transfixed on Jeremy's picture.

"Get out," Benedict whispered.

Yvonne straightened her spine. She smoothed her scrubs. She looked at them with pure, unadulterated hatred.

"Fine. But you will see. You will all see. She is not worth this. She never was."

She turned on her heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

I stayed in the shadows. I watched William sink into a chair, burying his face in his hands. I watched Benedict reach into the trash can and retrieve the crumpled note.

He smoothed it out on the desk, his tears falling onto my handwriting, blurring the ink.

Too late, I thought.

It is too late for tears.