Chelsea's POV:

"It's alright, my love," Corbin said, still stroking Ivy' s hair, his back to the door that held my deceased body. "Don't let her theatrics upset you. She'll come around eventually."

Emilio, ever the protector, glared towards the unseen door. "She always makes a show of it. Honestly, it's exhausting. Acting out like this, after everything."

Erland, leaning against the antique fireplace, let out a frustrated sigh. "I swear, sometimes it feels like she enjoys causing drama. She's never been one to face consequences gracefully."

Ivy carefully moved away from Corbin, her hand subtly reaching for her arm. She rubbed a patch of skin, a faint red mark visible on her porcelain wrist. Her lower lip trembled ever so slightly.

"What's wrong, darling?" Corbin asked, instantly alert, his eyes narrowed with concern. "Did she hurt you earlier?"

Ivy quickly dropped her hand, shaking her head. "No, no, it's nothing, Corbin. Just a little scratch from… from the struggle to get her phone. She was quite resistant." Her voice was barely a whisper, filled with a feigned bravery.

Corbin' s face darkened, a storm brewing in his eyes. "A scratch? She dared to lay a hand on you?" His voice was low, dangerous. "After all you've done for this family, for her?"

"She has no shame!" Emilio spat, his fists clenching at his sides. "No remorse for the data breach, no respect for you, Ivy, who has only ever shown her kindness."

"This is unacceptable," Erland added, his voice tight. "She needs to be brought out. She needs to apologize, properly. She needs to understand the depth of her disrespect."

Corbin slammed his hand on the armrest of the sofa, the sound echoing through the room. "Mrs. Gable! Go get her. Bring her here. She will apologize to Ivy, and she will face the consequences of her actions immediately."

Mrs. Gable, still standing by the door, wrung her hands. "Sir, I… I tried earlier. She… she was very unwell."

"Unwell?" Corbin scoffed, his eyes blazing. "She's a master manipulator. This is just another one of her games. Bring her out, Mrs. Gable! Now! And if she resists, make sure she understands that this time, there will be no leniency."

Mrs. Gable's shoulders slumped. She offered a small, defeated nod before turning and shuffling back towards the hallway, her footsteps heavy with dread.

My spirit watched her go, a ghost of a smile touching my non-existent lips. They truly believe I'm still in there, playing games. The delusion is almost comical, if it weren't so tragic. They always saw me through the lens of their preconceived notions, never truly looking, never truly listening.

I remembered the "incident" Ivy had just alluded to. It wasn't a struggle, not really. Ivy had cornered me in the hallway, her smile too wide, her eyes too bright. She had pressed a small vial into my hand. "It's a new allergy medication for your condition, Chelsea. Your father insisted I give it to you. He worries about you."

I had looked at the vial, my brow furrowed. "But my medication is usually distinct. This looks different."

"Oh, it's a new formulation," Ivy had said, waving her hand dismissively. "Much stronger. Just take it." She had then pulled my hand to my mouth, forcing a few drops in before I could react. That's when I had seen it – the faint red marks on her wrist, from where she' d accidentally spilled some of the liquid, a potent allergen, on herself. She was so close to me, her breath sweet, her eyes devoid of any concern. It was a calculated move, not an accident. I felt the familiar constriction in my throat almost immediately.

Then she had feigned a struggle, twisting my arm to make it look like I was resisting, securing my phone from my pocket. "Oh, Chelsea, why do you always have to be so difficult?" she' d sighed, loud enough for a passing maid to hear.

And now, here I was, or rather, here my body was, suffering the consequences of their blindness. Their unwavering belief in her, their absolute dismissal of me. The pain, once acute, had faded into a dull throb in my ghostly chest. It was a numb acceptance. Death was a release, after all.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Gable returned, her face ashen, her fingers twitching uncontrollably. "Mr. Gibson," she stammered, "She… she isn't responding."

Corbin stiffened, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. "What do you mean, 'not responding'? Is she refusing to come out?"

"I… I knocked, sir. I called her name. There' s no sound. No movement. Not even…" Mrs. Gable swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper. "Not even breathing, sir."

Emilio snorted, a disbelieving sound. "Don't be ridiculous, Mrs. Gable. She's just playing dead. A new low, even for her."

Ivy gasped, a high-pitched, fragile sound, clutching Corbin's arm. "Oh, no! Could she… could she have done something drastic, Corbin? She has always been so emotional." Her eyes, wide with fake fear, sought confirmation from Corbin.

Corbin's face, though still tinged with anger, now held a flicker of something else. Something unsettling. "This is too far, Chelsea!" he roared, standing abruptly. "This childish game has gone on long enough! She's trying to scare us, make us feel guilty. It's despicable!"

He strode towards the hallway, his powerful frame radiating fury. "I'll go myself! She will apologize. She will acknowledge her betrayal. And she will learn that this family cannot be manipulated!"

My spirit watched him, a silent observer of his futile rage. You're too late, Father. But the words, like my breath, were lost to the void.

Chelsea's POV:

My spirit drifted, a weightless presence, following Corbin. The living room blurred behind me, replaced by the dimly lit hallway. With every step he took towards the room, an unsettling emptiness grew within me. It wasn't just the absence of my physical body; it was the hollow recognition of how utterly alone I had been.

Emilio and Erland were right behind him, their heavy footsteps thudding on the Persian rug. They reached the door to the room, the one with the secondary bolts Corbin had ordered. The air around it felt colder, heavier.

Corbin pounded on the thick oak. "Chelsea! Enough of this nonsense! Open this door right now!" His voice boomed, echoing in the suffocating silence.

No answer. Only the silence of a house that held a secret.

Corbin's jaw tightened, his face darkening like a storm cloud. He banged again, harder this time. "Don't test my patience, young lady! You are pushing your luck! You think this is some kind of clever protest? An act of rebellion?"

Still, nothing.

"She' s probably just sulking," Emilio scoffed, trying to sound confident, but a sliver of unease flickered in his eyes. "Trying to make us feel bad. She's always been so dramatic, so self-indulgent."

Erland stepped forward, his eyes narrowed, a different kind of anger on his face. "She thinks we'll just forget about the data leak if she hides away. Thinks she can manipulate us with her silence. She's always been weak, always running from responsibility."

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. No defiant retort, no whimper, no sound at all.

Corbin turned, his gaze sharp and accusatory, landing on Mrs. Gable who hovered timidly a few feet away. "You said she was calling out, Mrs. Gable. That she was unwell. Was that another one of her fabricated stories? Were you in on it?"

Mrs. Gable trembled, her eyes wide with fear. "No, sir! Never! She… she was truly unwell. I heard her. I swear."

"She' s probably just run away," Emilio muttered, rubbing his chin. "That's her style. Cause chaos, then disappear."

"I wouldn't put it past her," Erland agreed, though his gaze kept drifting back to the door. "She' s never truly fit in with the family. Always the sensitive one, the artistic one, the one who couldn't handle the pressure." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Honestly, sometimes I wonder if she was really one of us."

One of you? My spirit scoffed, a silent, bitter laugh. I was more of you than you ever cared to see.

Mrs. Gable, her voice a reedy whisper, insisted, "No, sirs. She' s been in there. I've heard her. She hasn't left."

Corbin' s eyes lingered on the door, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. A nascent worry, perhaps? A whisper of doubt in the fortress of his certainty.

He tried the doorknob, twisting it with a violent jerk. It held fast. He slammed his shoulder against the wood, once, twice. The door remained stubbornly shut.

"Chelsea, seriously!" Corbin roared, his voice laced with frustration now. "This isn't funny! You think you're clever, locking yourself in? Playing coy?"

Coy? My spirit echoed. If only you knew what was behind that door.

I remembered the last moments. The air, heavy like wet blankets, pressing down on my lungs. My body, writhing, desperate for a gasp of fresh air. My fingers clawed at the solid wood, leaving faint, bloody streaks. I screamed until my throat was raw, until my voice was nothing but a rasp.

The door, thick and unyielding, had been an impenetrable barrier. It was then that I realized the cold, hard truth: they weren't coming. They believed Ivy. They believed their own narrative about me. They were letting me die.

My last breath was a ragged, silent cough. My chest burned, then went numb. The light faded to black.

Just open the door, my spirit pleaded, a silent prayer to the men who could no longer hear me. Just see what you' ve done.

Corbin' s frustration boiled over. He kicked the door, a solid, furious thud. The wood groaned, a faint crack appearing near the top hinge.

Then, a smell. Not the metallic tang of blood, or the sweet odor of decaying flowers. This was deeper, fouler. A sickly-sweet stench, heavy and cloying, wafted from the crack.

Mrs. Gable gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh my God! What is that smell?" Her voice was tight with rising panic.

Emilio and Erland, drawn by the sudden shift, rushed forward, their expressions mirroring hers.

"It's probably a dead rat," Emilio said, trying to dismiss it, though his nose crinkled in disgust. "Or she's spilled something foul in there. Another one of her childish attempts to bother us."

"Perhaps she's making some kind of… art project," Erland added, his voice laced with disdain. "Something to shock us."

The three Gibson men, their faces contorted with a mixture of disgust and irritation, simultaneously kicked the door. A loud, splintering CRACK echoed through the silent hallway.

The door lurched inward, ripped from its frame.

The stench intensified, a suffocating wave that assaulted every sense. It was the smell of something truly, horribly, irretrievably dead.

The darkness of the suffocating room was finally exposed.

Chelsea's POV:

The external light, harsh and unforgiving, cut through the suffocating darkness of the room. It illuminated the dust motes dancing in the air, the peeling paint on the walls, and the source of the unbearable stench.

My spirit, weightless and unseen, drifted closer. A cold dread, colder than any sensation I' d known in life, settled in my ethereal chest.

There, crumpled in a heap against the far wall, was my body.

The room had been stifling hot, the air thick and stagnant, a perfect incubator for decay. Now, the full horror of it was laid bare.

My skin was no longer the pale, sensitive canvas of an artist. It was discolored, blotchy, a gruesome tapestry of black and purple. Bloated. Distorted.

Tiny, white maggots, disturbingly active, writhed across the decaying flesh, a grotesque crown of life feasting on death.

My face, once familiar, was unrecognizable. Swollen and purplish-blue, mouth agape, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. The tell-tale signs of asphyxiation were stark, undeniable.

I was… gone. The body was a husk, a forgotten vessel.

A wave of pure panic washed over my spirit, a visceral terror despite my non-existence. No! Don't look! I wanted to cover their eyes, to shield them from this horror, from me.

My decayed form. Bloated. Maggot-ridden. It was a grotesque parody of the human body. The dignity of death, stripped away by neglect and time.

Please, I screamed in my silent world, don't let them see me like this! Don't let them see what they let me become!

But my ethereal efforts were useless. I was a ghost, a whisper in the wind. They saw.

Corbin stood frozen in the doorway, his face a ghastly shade of white. The silence in the hallway was thick, heavy, suffocating.

He staggered backward, one hand flying to his mouth. His lips trembled, a violent, uncontrollable tremor. His eyes, usually steely and calculating, were wide, dilated with a mixture of horror and revulsion. The carefully constructed façade of the ruthless CEO, the composed patriarch, shattered into a million pieces.

"What… what is this?" His voice was a choked whisper, stripped of all its usual authority, barely audible above the buzzing flies.

Emilio and Erland, huddled behind him, their faces mirroring their father's shock. Their initial arrogance, their annoyance, their certainty that this was all a trick – it evaporated like mist in the sun. The joke they had convinced themselves I was playing had just curdled into a nightmare.

Emilio let out a strangled sound, a gagging noise, and clapped a hand over his mouth and nose, his body convulsing.

Erland stood rigid, paralyzed by the sight. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, a silent battle waging within him.

The smell of death, now unleashed, permeated every corner of the house. It clung to their expensive suits, wormed its way into their nostrils, a constant, sickening reminder of what lay beyond the door. It was a suffocating blanket, heavy and inescapable. It was the stench of their neglect, their unforgivable betrayal.

My spirit hovered, helpless, watching their faces crumple. Please, I thought again, don't see this. Don't see what your indifference has wrought. But then a wave of cold clarity hit me. It's too late. I am this. And you did this.

A young housemaid, standing on the fringes of the group, let out a piercing shriek. "Oh, God! It's… it's in there!" Her shaking finger pointed at my body. "It's… it's Miss Chelsea! The dress! It's the one she wore three days ago!"

Her words, sharp and undeniable, plunged the hallway into a deeper, heavier silence.

Corbin roared, a primal sound of denial and rage. "No! It's not her! She's just playing a trick! She's hiding somewhere! This is… this is a prop! A sick, twisted joke she's playing because she's jealous, because she can't stand Ivy getting attention!"

His eyes, however, betrayed the lie. They were fixed, horrified, on my mangled form. He couldn't tear his gaze away. Then, his eyes landed on my hand. Or what was left of it.

On my ring finger, a simple, silver ring. A cheap, mass-produced trinket I had bought myself years ago, a small act of rebellion against the family's obsession with expensive jewels.

Corbin' s breath hitched, a ragged, choked sound. His body stiffened, then slowly began to tremble. He stared at the ring, then at the face, the bloated, black-and-blue parody of his daughter. The fight between denial and crushing reality played out on his face.

This wasn't a game. This wasn't a trick. This was death. Ugly, gruesome, irrefutable death.

"Close the door," he whispered, his voice thin and reedy. "Close it now."

He turned, his face ashen, green around the gills. He looked like he was about to vomit.

"Everyone out!" he croaked, his voice cracking. "Get out! I… I need to think."

He needed to escape. To outrun the reality that had just slammed into him. But the stench, the image, the horror of it – it would cling to them all, forever.