Jaron's body trembled, collapsed on the cold floor like a pile of shattered wreckage. He let out another cough, the grating sound tearing through my spectral form.

"She's... gone," he whispered, his voice so faint it was barely audible. "Kayla... she's really gone." His eyes were wide, clouded with pain, but he stared straight at Elliot.

Elliot's patience completely snapped in that moment. His face twisted, the mask of indifference replaced by pure fury.

He closed in like a predator. "I'm sick of your games, Jaron!" he roared, his voice bouncing off the concrete walls. "You think I'm going to tolerate these lies and just watch Dolly waste away?"

He delivered a brutal kick to Jaron's injured ribs. Jaron whimpered, curling into a tight ball, but he continued to plead haltingly.

"Since you value this stupid secret more than your own future," Elliot spat, "let's see if you can still play the piano with broken hands."

"Break all his fingers. Make sure he never plays again."

I gasped, letting out a phantom cry of horror.

"No!" I screamed, a futile shout that dissolved into the air.

Jaron, his hands, his life's passion!

This was an act of extreme cruelty, far beyond anything I could have ever imagined the man I loved was capable of.

My love was turning to ash, burning away with every act of violence he inflicted on my family.

A sickening crunch, followed immediately by another, echoed through the warehouse.

Jaron's screams were shrill and piercing, as if they were tearing my very soul apart.

It was the sound of something precious being utterly obliterated.

I couldn't bear to look, yet I couldn't look away. My eyes were forced to witness this horrific scene.

Elliot watched coldly, his expression unreadable, standing like a stone statue amidst the chaos.

"Perhaps your memory is returning, Jaron?" he asked softly, a taunt in his voice. "Does it hurt now? Does it hurt enough to finally tell me where your beloved sister is hiding?"

His words were like a twisted blade plunging deep into my chest. He was mocking my brother's agony, mocking his loyalty.

Jaron's hands, once nimble and elegant, were now mangled and grotesque.

His fingers were bent at unnatural angles, dark red blood blooming against his pale skin.

His dreams, his future, were all trampled to dust under Elliot's iron heel.

A cold wave of reality hit me, waking me up sharply. This wasn't the Elliot I knew. This wasn't the man I had given everything for.

This was a stranger, a monster forged from deception and obsession.

"She's... gone," Jaron choked out again. "Kayla... she's really gone. I swear."

Elliot scoffed, waving a hand dismissively as he turned to leave.

"He's pathetic, still clinging to that ridiculous lie." He paced for a moment, his jaw tight. "Fine. If you won't talk, maybe she will."

He snapped his fingers, and a heavy door in the corner of the warehouse creaked open.

Two of his men walked out, dragging a small, frail figure between them.

My vision blurred.

No, it couldn't be. It couldn't be her.

"Mom!" I screamed, my voice so hoarse no sound came out; it was sheer, absolute terror.

"Jaron!"

Despite his severe injuries, Jaron let out a raspy cry from the floor, a sound woven of pain and fear.

It was Barbara, my mother. She was pale, her silver hair disheveled, as they dragged her into the harsh light.

She was unconscious, her head lolling to the side.

One of the men slapped her hard across the face, roughly pulling her back to consciousness.

She slowly opened her eyes, blinking against the glaring light, and then her eyes widened in horror when she saw Jaron.

"Jaron! My son!" Her voice hitched, tearing at my freezing heart.

She struggled to break free from their grip, her weak body trembling. Her gaze landed on Jaron's ruined hands, and tears spilled over once more.

"You demon! What have you done to my son?" she screamed at Elliot, her voice filled with a mother's fury. "Go to hell!"

Elliot merely sneered, his face a mask of apathy.

He approached Barbara, reaching out to roughly grab her chin, forcing her to look at him.

"Barbara, do you remember when you used to call me 'son'? Do you remember baking me apple pies? Look at you now, a desperate old woman." He paused, his grip tightening.

"Where is Kayla? Tell me where your precious daughter is, and all of this ends. I need her. Dolly needs her heart."

I remembered a young Elliot sitting at our dining table, laughing along with Mom as she teased him about his terrible cooking skills.

He used to be so respectful, so genuine toward her.

Now, he spoke to her like she was garbage, as if she were merely a disposable prop in his cruel game.

"She's dead, Elliot," Mom whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks, her eyes filled with unspeakable sorrow. "My Kayla is gone. She died for you. She died so you could see the light again."

The truth. This naked, heartbreaking truth.

Yet, Elliot's eyes remained cold and uncompromising.

"How dare you lie to me!" he roared, shoving her away roughly.

She stumbled, collapsing to her knees beside Jaron.

"Do you think I'm a fool? Kayla would never do something so selfless."

"You're just trying to protect her. Now, tell me where she is, or your son will suffer even more." He gestured to Jaron's mangled hands, his tone merciless.

Mom's gaze darted over Jaron before returning to Elliot, her face carrying a silent, desperate plea.

The stress was too much. She swayed, her eyes rolled back into her head, and she collapsed onto the floor, unconscious once again.

Elliot looked down at her, a flash of irritation in his eyes, but no remorse whatsoever.

"Weak," he muttered under his breath. He turned to his men. "Take her away. Keep Jaron locked up here. Until Kayla shows her face, he doesn't leave." With that, he delivered one last brutal kick to Jaron.

Just then, his phone buzzed.

He answered it, and his expression instantly softened, standing in jarring contrast to the demonic persona he wore just minutes prior.

"Dolly, my love," he murmured into the phone, his voice dripping with tenderness. "Yes, I'm still handling some things. I'll be there soon, I promise."

He was like a chameleon, effortlessly switching between a brutal torturer and a gentle lover.

A wave of disgust washed over my soul.

He was a master of deception, or perhaps, he was the one being deceived.

He hung up the phone. The possessive tenderness still lingering in his eyes swept over my family's broken bodies before hardening back into icy resolve.

He would continue the hunt, driven by a fabricated tale of love and betrayal, while my family paid the ultimate price for my selflessness.

A profound dread seized me, etching itself deep into the core of my ghostly soul.

Elliot, did I make a mistake? Three years ago, maybe I shouldn't have saved you.

Looking at Elliot's face, my mind drifted back to the past—before the accident, before he went blind, before Dolly spun her insidious web of lies.

I remembered how Dolly used to cling to Elliot when they were kids; her family's mansion sat adjacent to Elliot's estate. When Elliot spoke of her, his tone was a mix of pity and resentment.

"Her family betrayed mine," he confided in me one night. "After my parents died, her father, who was supposed to be my guardian, squandered my family's entire fortune. He left me nothing but a dilapidated house and a disgraced surname."

He said he hated them. He hated Dolly, and he hated the way she looked at him—a gaze filled with both contempt and arrogance, as if he were a pet on her leash.

He used to tell me how Dolly, once the darling of high society, and her friends would laugh at him behind his back, whispering about his family's downfall and treating him like an inferior being.

He despised all of it.

I was the one who helped him rebuild his confidence, encouraging him to channel his anger into ambition.

We fought side by side, working tirelessly from the ground up. With his sharp intellect and my unwavering support, we built his tech empire from scratch.

I thought we were invincible. I thought we were a team destined to spend our lives together, chasing our dreams and achieving greatness.

I used to envision our future—a tapestry woven with love, success, and the quiet solace of each other's company.

I thought we would conquer the world together.

Foolish, naive Kayla.

My kindness, my desperate act to shield him from suffering, had become the very weapon used against my own family.

My selfless lie, a seed planted with so much love, had grown into poisonous vines, strangling everything I held dear.

Now, I watched as Elliot's hands began typing a message to Dolly.

He was arranging to meet her, to bring her flowers, playing the role of the devoted fiancé.

The taste of this irony was like bitter bile in my nonexistent mouth.

He was completely oblivious, blind to the truth right in front of him, even after regaining his sight through my sacrifice.

"Christian, I need those files," I had whispered to my best friend and lawyer from my hospital bed, "the sealed medical records, and the video diaries. Keep them safe. Promise me... promise me you won't show them to Elliot. Let him think I left. It's for the best."

Out of loyalty to me, he did as I asked. And now, that very loyalty had cost my family everything.

As Elliot spoke to Dolly on the phone, a gentle smile curved his lips, his voice as soft as a caress.

"My dear Dolly, don't worry, I'll be right there. I'll always be by your side." He was a completely different person. The brute who had just ordered my brother's torture, the murderer who watched my mother collapse, was gone. In his place was this gentle, considerate lover.

He hung up, the tender expression vanishing in an instant.

He turned to his men. "Take Jaron to the infirmary. Patch him up. But don't let him go. He's still our bait."

The icy aura returned, a chilling reminder of his true purpose.

Elliot left the warehouse and headed straight for the hospital.

He stopped at a florist, carefully selecting a bouquet of pristine white lilies—Dolly's favorite flowers.

But they weren't mine.

My favorites had always been bluebells, petite and exquisitely beautiful. He had once promised to fill our garden with bluebells. That memory pierced my chest like a shard of glass.

He stopped outside Dolly's hospital room, adjusting his tie and smoothing his hair. He even cleared his throat, subtly altering his voice to sound softer, more upbeat. Dolly, inside the room, was clearly prepared as well.

"Elliot? Is that you, darling?" Dolly's voice floated out of the room, cloyingly sweet and somewhat forced.

I saw her lying in bed, eyes tightly shut, covered by a thin layer of white gauze.

She was still pretending to be blind—a calculated move to maintain Elliot's misguided loyalty.

Elliot pushed the door open, his eyes brimming with feigned concern.

"My little darling, how are you feeling?" He walked to her bedside and took her hand.

His hands, which once belonged to me, were now hers.

"Oh, Elliot, it's so dark," Dolly whimpered, clutching his hand tightly. "I wish I could see your handsome face. I'm so lonely without you." Her voice trembled; it was a masterful performance.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," Elliot said softly, stroking her hair. "You're so brave. You're the strongest woman I know."

"You hardly visit lately," Dolly pouted, a hint of mild reproach in her tone. "I miss you."

"I'm so sorry, darling. Work has been crazy lately," Elliot said lightly, "but I brought you something." He gently placed the lilies on her nightstand.

Dolly reached out, her fingertips lightly brushing the petals. "Oh, lilies," she said, a trace of confusion in her voice. "They're... beautiful, Elliot. But I thought you knew... I've always preferred roses."

A crack appeared in her facade; she had slipped up.

She didn't expect lilies.

She was used to Elliot remembering everything she liked.

My ghostly heart clenched. He had always known my favorite flowers were bluebells, but he also knew Dolly loved roses.

The lilies were the first sign of his confusion, his subconscious beginning to unravel the tangled threads of lies.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, darling. I must have been distracted." Elliot quickly recovered his composure, his tone filled with concern. He was even catering to her over such trivial matters. "Don't worry. Next time it will be roses, I promise. Red ones, just for you." He squeezed her hand. "Soon, we'll be together forever. As husband and wife."

My soul felt a piercing chill, more agonizing than any physical wound. It was as if my very spirit was being crushed, the breath stolen from my lungs.

His promises, his sacred vows, now belonged to her.

Dolly's face lit up immediately. Her perfectly manicured hands reached up to cup his cheeks. "Really, Elliot? Do you mean it?"

"Of course, my love," he whispered, leaning in closer.

"Kiss me, Elliot." Her demand was bold and domineering.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then pressed his lips against hers.

I couldn't watch anymore. I couldn't bear to witness this twisted affection.

I turned away, covering my spectral ears with my hands, desperate to block out their sickeningly sweet words.

It was a nightmare, and I was trapped within it, forced to observe my own erasure forever.

The memory of our first kiss—the hesitance and the innocence—flashed before my eyes, then shattered into a million pieces.

The man who was once as bright as the moon had now turned into a dark, destructive force. And I was nothing but a forgotten speck of dust, tethered to this place.

Elliot broke away from Dolly's kiss, his eyes hollow and strange.

He hurriedly muttered something about needing to take a call and left the room, leaving Dolly with a trace of a satisfied smile on her lips, even if it was still part of her act.

His sudden departure confused me. He was playing the role of the devoted fiancé, yet internally, he radiated tension and unease.

He walked straight to the cold, sterile men's restroom in the hospital, splashing cold water on his face over and over again.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror, his gaze burning, almost panicked.

He looked... haunted. Not just tired, but deeply, fundamentally disturbed.

He lit a cigarette, the smoke billowing around him, then pulled out his phone, his thumb flying across the screen.

"Any news on Kayla?" His voice was low. "Don't tell me you've hit another dead end. I need her! Dolly's condition is getting worse. We're running out of time!"

He punched the tiled wall.

The person on the other end must have given him an unsatisfactory answer, because Elliot's face contorted in rage.

He hurled the phone across the room, watching it shatter against the wall.

He was like a dark storm cloud, gathering ominous energy.

He strode back toward Dolly's room, only to see a doctor walking out with a grim expression.

"Mr. Moon, Ms. Haynes's condition has taken a sharp downturn. Her heart is failing rapidly. We need that donor, and we need her now."

Elliot rushed into the room.

Dolly was weeping silently, tears tracking down her cheeks as her hands clutched tightly at her chest.

"Elliot," she sobbed, blindly reaching out to grab him. "I'm scared. I don't want to die. Don't let me leave you." Her words were full of desperate pleading, yet they felt like a meticulously performed display of vulnerability.

He rushed to her side, pulling her into his arms, holding her tightly. "No, Dolly, no. You're not going anywhere. I won't let you go." His voice choked up, carrying a genuine fear and concern for her.

"I will find Kayla. I promise you, I will bring her back. She will save you." His words sent a chill down my spine.

Elliot left the hospital, the fierce glint reignited in his eyes.

He drove straight back to the desolate warehouse where Jaron was being held.

In his hand was a whip, the leather gleaming ominously in the dim light.

At the sight of it, my spectral form was once again gripped by terror.

He found Jaron, who was still slumped on the floor, bleeding but conscious.

"Last chance, Jaron," Elliot growled, his voice thick with menace. "Where is Kayla?"

Jaron slowly lifted his head, his eyes bloodshot, his face covered in bruises.

"She's dead, Elliot," he repeated, his voice so hoarse it was almost a whisper. "She died for you. That is the truth."

Elliot gritted his teeth.

"Lies! All lies!" The whip cracked through the air, landing heavily on Jaron's back with a dull thud.

My brother screamed, his body arching in agony.

Elliot raised the whip again, his face a mask of cold fury, and delivered another brutal lash.

With a flick of his wrist, he pulled out his phone, snapped a picture of Jaron's bloody back, and sent it off.

Moments later, the door was shoved open.

Mom, my frail, heartbroken mother, stumbled in. Her hair was a mess, her eyes bloodshot, her face streaked with tears and dirt.

She looked like a ghost herself; the vibrant woman she used to be was now nothing but a shadow.

My heart—or what was left of it—twisted in agony.

Elliot looked at her, a sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Look what the cat dragged in. The grief-stricken mother. Are you finally going to tell me where your selfish daughter is hiding?"

Mom's gaze fell upon Jaron's tortured form. Her eyes were red-rimmed and sunken.

She let out a silent whimper. Then, trembling, she pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and threw it at Elliot's feet. Her eyes were filled with absolute despair.

"Here," she whispered, her voice raspy. "You'll find her here. Stop hurting Jaron. Stop hurting everyone." She fought back sobs, her shoulders shaking violently.

Elliot looked down at the paper, then back up at Mom, a flicker of doubt in his eyes.

He bent down, picked up the note, and narrowed his eyes at the hastily scrawled address.

"This better not be another one of your pathetic tricks," he warned softly, his tone dangerous. He glanced at his men. "Grab her. She's coming with us. Let's see if her 'truth' is actually real."

Mom didn't fight back, letting them drag her away roughly.

Elliot got into his sleek black sedan, clutching the piece of paper tightly, his thumb mindlessly tracing the crease.

A suffocating silence filled the car as they sped through the city streets.

The car finally came to a stop—not at a bustling port or an airport, but at the gates of a quiet, sprawling cemetery.

Mom was yanked roughly from the car and pushed to the ground.

"This is it," she murmured, her voice so faint it was barely a whisper, choking on her words. "Kayla is here."

Elliot stepped out, his eyes sweeping over the solemn rows of tombstones.

He looked at Mom, then at the graveyard, a cold sneer forming on his lips. He spotted a simple headstone bearing a black-and-white photograph. It was me.

He let out a laugh of pure disbelief.

"A cemetery? You're telling me she's dead? This is your grand scheme? You want me to believe she's buried here?" He kicked the dirt next to the headstone. "Are we supposed to dig her up now? Is that the plan?"

His tone dripped with bitter sarcasm, every word laced with contempt.

Mom sat slumped on the ground. She looked up at him, her eyes burning with a fierce, heartbreaking conviction.

"It's the truth, Elliot," she said, her voice stronger than before, tinged with a soul-tearing agony. "She's dead. She's been dead for three years. She died for you."

Elliot's face flushed crimson with rage.

He shoved Mom hard, sending her sprawling onto the damp grass.

"Liar!" he roared. "She's not dead! She couldn't be! She's out there right now, living her selfish life, having abandoned me!"

Just then, his phone rang again, snapping him out of his furious tirade.

He snatched the phone, his breathing ragged.

"What is it?" he barked into the receiver.

Then, his eyes—still burning with fury—suddenly went wide. A faint, barely perceptible smile grazed his lips.

"You found a lead on her? You found Kayla?"

He looked at Mom, a flash of triumphant, cruel light in his eyes.

"See? I told you she was still alive. I was always going to find her."

He turned back to the phone, and the triumphant smile on his face slowly froze.

The words from the other end hit him like a physical blow. The color drained from his face in an instant.

His hand began to tremble. He slowly pulled the phone away from his ear as if it were a venomous snake.

His subordinate's words echoed in the sudden silence, tolling like a death knell in the graveyard air.

"Sir... the information is confirmed. Kayla Ashley... she's dead. She passed away three years ago."