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."

Elliot's pupils shrank to pinpricks, his entire body going rigid as if struck by lightning.

He finally spoke, his voice so hoarse it was barely audible.

"Say that again," he commanded, his eyes wide open. "What did you say?"

His subordinate's stuttering voice confirmed the reality.

"Sir... Kayla Ashley... she passed away three years ago. To save you, she donated her corneas and died on the operating table."

"The records... they're all here. Her grave... is at the municipal cemetery. The very one you're at right now."

A muscle in Elliot's jaw twitched violently, the veins on his forehead bulging like thick cords.

He gripped the phone in a death hold, his knuckles turning white, his entire body shaking.

"You're lying!" he roared, his raspy voice shattering the graveyard's tranquility. "You're all lying to me! She's not dead! She can't be dead!"

The subordinate, clearly terrified, insisted, "Sir, the information is irrefutable. We have the official death certificate, the hospital records..." Before he could finish, Elliot let out a gut-wrenching groan, a sound tangled with agony and rage.

Mom remained slumped on the wet grass, staring at him with hollow eyes.

Wave after wave of tears spilled from her eyes, flowing endlessly.

"Oh, Kayla," she sobbed, her voice shattered. "My baby girl. I should have stopped you. Even if it killed me, I should have stopped her from donating her corneas."

The remorse in her voice felt like a crushing weight, suffocating my empty heart.

Elliot snapped his head toward her, his eyes blazing with an ominous fire.

"Shut up!" he bellowed, his voice laced with pure denial. "She's not dead! She abandoned me! It was Dolly who saved me, not her! Don't you dare try to twist the truth now!"

He clung desperately to his distorted reality, refusing to let go of the narrative that absolved him of guilt.

He waved his arms frantically at his men.

"Dig it up! Dig it up! I want to see it with my own eyes! Proof! Prove to me she's dead!"

His command stemmed from a desperate, manic urge to utterly obliterate the truth.

Despite her frailty, Mom scrambled forward, waving her arms.

"No! You can't! Don't you dare desecrate her grave!" she shrieked, her voice ragged.

But it was too late. Two of Elliot's men grabbed her and dragged her away, her protests fading into desperate whimpers.

My soul let out a silent, agonizing scream.

He was desecrating my resting place, my quiet corner of peace.

Watching my family suffer, watching Elliot plunge step by step into this bottomless abyss of madness, the pain was almost too much to bear.

My love for him, which had endured even after death, was now rotting into bitter hatred.

Shovels bit deep into the dirt, tearing open the sacred ground.

Soil flew, clods of dirt scattering across the quiet cemetery. It felt like centuries had passed, though perhaps it was only minutes, before the men unearthed a small, smooth wooden box.

My urn. My final resting place.

Elliot stood at the edge of the open grave, his chest heaving, his face pale and gaunt.

With trembling hands, he reached out and took the urn from his subordinate.

He swayed on his feet, shaking uncontrollably.

He cradled the urn carefully, as if it were something infinitely precious.

"Sir, wait," one of the men said, pointing at something glinting in the freshly overturned earth. "There's a... a pendant down there."

Elliot's eyes widened, his gaze unfocused as he followed the man's pointing finger.

The urn slipped from his grasp, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

His eyes were glued to the small, silver heart pendant, half-buried in the dirt.

My throat choked up, a silent sob rising in my chest.

It was the pendant he had given me, engraved with our initials.

My heart—my foolish, love-filled heart—had prized it above any jewel.

I remembered my final moments, my voice weak, my hand gripping Christian's tightly.

"Promise me," I whispered. "When I'm buried, put this in with me. So a part of him will always be there."

I wanted him to know that even in death, I loved him, and he was forever with me.

What a massive irony.

My love, my eternal promise, had now been dug up, exposed to his freezing, biting rage.

I had thought our love was eternal, that our promises would be etched into the river of time.

Now, watching him stand beside my desecrated grave, it all seemed so laughably pathetic.

Elliot dropped to his knees, completely ignoring the mud. His hands clawed frantically at the dirt, desperate to retrieve the pendant.

His eyes were bloodshot, glowing like burning coals against his ashen face.

He snatched the pendant, clutching it tightly in his palm.

"No," he muttered, his voice hoarse and raw. "No, it's a trick. It has to be a trick. She's not dead. She can't be."

He looked up, his gaze darting between the pendant, the empty grave, and Mom.

Mom was weeping silently now, resigned to her fate.

"You're all lying! All of you are lying! She's playing me! She wants to hurt me!"

Then, he let out a blood-curdling sound.

He laughed—a manic, desperate laugh that quickly dissolved into broken sobs.

He clutched his chest, his breathing ragged and painful, his body shaking violently.

"Kayla," he choked out, my name breaking over his lips like a shattered plea. "Kayla, how could you do this? How could you leave me?"

He had finally, completely broken.

The truth—this terrain long buried beneath lies, hatred, and his own twisted narrative—was slamming into him like a tsunami.

He was collapsing, swallowed whole by the horrific reality he had built with his own hands.

"Get out!" he roared, shoving his men away violently, his voice torn with agony. "All of you! Get out! Leave me alone!"

He rebelled like a child in pain, trapped in a nightmare of his own making.

The sky seemed to share his sentiment, suddenly breaking open.

A freezing torrential downpour unleashed, instantly soaking everything.

Elliot staggered to his feet, looking like a phantom in the heavy rain. His expensive suit clung to his body, his face covered in mud, tears, and rain.

He walked toward his car—or rather, stumbled toward it, his movements slow and stiff, like a marionette with cut strings.

The rain poured down, reflecting the turbulent, violent emotions churning within him.

He was entirely alone, utterly broken, stripped bare beneath the indifferent, unfeeling sky.

He fumbled clumsily for the door handle, finally yanking it open and collapsing inside.

The engine roared to life, and the car sped off, leaving behind a weeping mother.

His destination was clear: the hospital.

The confrontation was coming.

For Dolly, and for him, the moment of truth had arrived.

I watched him go, a chilling premonition tangling deep within the hollow core of my being.

This was it.

Elliot pushed open the door to Dolly's hospital room with trembling hands.

His face was devoid of expression, like a blank canvas just before a storm strikes.

Startled by the abrupt intrusion, Dolly gasped, her eyes flying wide open.

She stared straight at Elliot.

In that split second, her carefully crafted facade vanished completely.

She saw him.

And I saw her.