Elara Morgan's POV:

"She has been dead for five years, Christian." Bertram's voice choked up, his grief palpable. "She passed away five years ago. May God rest her soul."

Christian burst into laughter. The harsh, incredulous sound sliced through the quiet air.

"Dead? Stop joking. Elara wouldn't die. She's just hiding, playing some kind of sick prank."

His gaze swept over the rundown little house, then over a group of villagers who had been drawn by the commotion.

"Find her! Tear this place apart if you have to! I want Elara Morgan, and I want her now!"

His bodyguards swarmed the village, their heavy boots kicking up dust, their expressions grim. They barged into homes, rummaging through the villagers' meager belongings, barking orders.

The poor, defenseless villagers scattered like frightened birds. An atmosphere of fear hung heavily over the village, like a thick, suffocating blanket.

As the minutes ticked by, Christian's expression grew darker. His frustration was palpable, rolling off him in waves of barely contained rage.

He couldn't find me. Because I wasn't there. At least, not in any way he could understand.

He grabbed Bertram by the collar, his strong hands twisting the worn fabric.

"Where is she, old man? Tell me where she's hiding herself!" His eyes were manic, the edges rimmed with red.

"I told you," Bertram gasped, struggling against Christian's iron grip. "She is dead."

"Don't lie to me!" Christian roared, his voice shaking the frail old man. "If you don't cooperate, I'll make you regret it!"

Bertram stared back at him, his gaze unwavering despite the pain.

"She is at peace, Christian. You should let her rest."

Christian's patience snapped like a dry twig.

With a sickening crunch, he violently twisted Bertram's arm.

A cry of pure agony ripped from the pastor's throat, echoing in the stifling silence.

Just then, a tiny figure burst from the crowd of terrified villagers.

It was Kaelen. My Kaelen.

"Grandpa!" she cried out, her voice high and childlike. She ran to Bertram's side, tears streaming down her cheeks, her small hands reaching out for his injured arm.

Christian froze. His furious eyes locked onto Kaelen.

A flicker of emotion crossed his face—confusion, a dawn of realization, and hesitation.

Glaring at him with wide, furious eyes, Kaelen bit down hard on Christian's hand. Christian let out a yell of pain.

It was a visceral reaction. Unthinking violence. He kicked her.

Not hard enough to be lethal, but hard enough to send her tumbling to the dusty ground, her small body hitting the earth with a heavy thud.

She struggled to her feet, her little chin trembling, a fire burning in her eyes that surprised even me, her mother.

"You... you big bully!" she screamed, her voice hoarse with pain and anger. "Why did you hurt Grandpa Bertram? Why?!"

Christian's face twisted. His arrogant facade crumbled for a fraction of a second, revealing a raw, unfamiliar emotion.

He stared at her, really looking at her, his eyes darting across her features. The shape of her eyes. Her stubborn jawline. It was as if he could see the ghost of my face reflected in hers.

He leaned down, grabbed her by the arm, and hoisted her up effortlessly until she was dangling in mid-air.

He turned her around, scrutinizing her face and her tiny hands.

"Bastard," he whispered, his voice raspy, laced with a complex mix of shock and disgust. "The illegitimate mutt Elara gave birth to."

His hand tightened around her neck. Kaelen thrashed, her small hands clawing at his fingers, her face turning a deep shade of red.

"My baby!" I screamed.

No! Christian, don't do this!

I lunged at him, my ethereal form phasing right through his solid body.

I couldn't touch him. I couldn't stop him. This powerlessness was a thousand times more agonizing than death itself.

Kaelen's struggles grew weaker. Her breathing became rapid, erratic, and desperate. Her eyes, wide with terror, searched wildly for help.

Despite his broken arm, Bertram tried to stand. "Christian, stop! She is your—"

The heavy boot of a guard slammed into his chest, knocking him back to the ground with a choked cough.

Christian loosened his grip just enough for Kaelen to take a shallow, gasping breath. Her eyes were still wide, still filled with absolute terror.

He dropped her to the ground.

"Elara!" he roared, his voice echoing through the silent village. "Three days! Three days, Elara! If you don't show yourself, I'll be back. And next time, this little bastard won't be so lucky!"

My soul trembled violently. Watching Bertram suffer such brutality, and watching my daughter's innocent life threatened by her own biological father—the pain was unbearable, surpassing even the torment of my own death.

Over the years, my love for Christian had warped and twisted, finally hardening into a deep, bone-chilling hatred.

I regretted every single second I had ever wasted loving him. Every gentle touch, every whispered promise, every shared dream.

He was a monster. A monster who had destroyed my life and was now threatening my child.

Elara Morgan's POV:

Three days flew by.

For a ghost like me, time flowed like a long, agonizing river.

On the morning of the fourth day, the black motorcade reappeared.

This time, there was another figure in the convoy. Annabelle.

She looked haggard, pale and weak, leaning heavily on Christian's arm as if she had lost all her former vitality.

Her once-bright eyes were dull, the cunning gleam replaced by a genuine vulnerability that made my ghostly form shudder with a twisted sense of satisfaction.

Five years ago, her arrogance had been sharp as a blade, but now, she looked almost pathetic. Almost.

Christian held her tenderly, as if she were made of spun glass. He helped her out of the car, his movements gentle, his eyes full of concern.

His unwavering devotion to her burned a fresh hole through my phantom heart.

I stood beside Bertram on the edge of the crowd, like a silent sentinel. He waited, brave and defiant, for Christian's next move. Of course, Christian only had eyes for the living.

All he saw were the villagers, the rundown houses, and the empty space where I was supposed to be.

"Elara!" Christian's voice rang out again, tinged with unconcealed fury. "Are you really this cold-blooded? To let your own sister suffer like this?"

His words were a cruel mockery of the truth.

Cold-blooded?

He was the one who banished me. She was the one who orchestrated my death.

He paused, deliberately letting the silence stretch, then continued, his tone softening to a saccharine sweetness that made me sick to my stomach.

"Listen, Elara, I know you've been through a lot. But we can fix this. I'll pave the way. I'll bring in doctors, build a clinic. Your life here will... improve. Just come back."

He spoke of money and comfort, as if my life, my love, and my death could all be bought.

"You can have your old life back," he promised, his eyes scanning the villagers, trying to gauge their reactions. "The status. The position."

Then, he delivered the most heartless insult of all.

"And the child," he added, his tone utterly devoid of warmth. "I'll treat her as if she were my own."

My own child.

The child he had just tried to kill.

The child he still refused to acknowledge as his own.

He thought he was being generous; he thought he was saving me. He genuinely believed he was making a "massive concession."

His arrogance was astounding.

Bertram, as composed as ever, stood his ground. He didn't give Christian any easy answers, nor did he yield an inch.

"Christian," Bertram began, his voice raspy. "Elara suffered greatly here. After you sent her away, she was entirely alone, utterly isolated."

"It didn't take long for some local thugs to start harassing her." Hearing those words was a bitter comfort, a soothing balm to my scarred soul.

Finally, someone was speaking the truth.

"We found her," Bertram's voice trembled. "She was lying in a field, barely clinging to life. Her body was... covered in bruises. Christian, she was violated. Beaten black and blue. And worse..."

He paused, fighting back a sob.

"She didn't make it. We buried her ourselves in the little cemetery at the edge of the woods. It was the only thing we could do for her."

Christian let out a dark chuckle.

"You expect me to believe this fairy tale? And what about the child? Let me guess, the product of Elara's lover? Just another lie to cover up her infidelity?"

His face was etched with mockery and disbelief. He still couldn't accept that I was truly dead. That it hadn't been my choice.

"The child was born the night Elara came to us," Bertram explained, his gaze unwavering. "She was pregnant when she arrived, Christian. Kaelen is your daughter. Your own flesh and blood."

"After Elara passed, we took the child in. It was our duty."

Annabelle, still clinging tightly to Christian, flinched. A flash of surprise crossed her features, followed quickly by a cold, cruel shadow sweeping over her pale face.

She knew. She had always known.

My mind instantly flashed back to that night.

The night Christian kicked me out.

The night Annabelle came to my cabin. She hadn't come to comfort me; she had come to destroy me.

I could see her again, a vicious, triumphant smirk playing on her lips. She wasn't fragile then; she was a viper. She brought three men with her. Three animals.

"My dear sister," she cooed, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "Did you really think you could have Christian? You, the one who was always destined to be second best?"

They pinned me to the floor. I wailed, my voice hoarse, consumed by terror, heavily pregnant with our child.

Annabelle slapped me hard across the face, over and over. My ears rang.

"This is for marrying him," she hissed, her eyes gleaming with insane jealousy. "This is for stealing what is mine!"

Then she grabbed my fingers and twisted violently.

She ground the heel of her shoe into my knuckles until the bones shattered. I screamed. The agony was blinding.

"He was meant to be mine!" she shrieked, her voice rough with madness.

She kicked me, her slender foot connecting with my ribs and my stomach.

I curled into a ball, trying to protect the baby in my womb, but my cries were smothered by a rough, calloused hand clamped over my mouth.

When it was over, I lay gasping on the floor, barely conscious. She leaned in close, her hot, sugary breath ghosting over my ear.

"You think this is over? You think you escaped? No, Elara. How dare you live, how dare you breathe the same air as Christian. You will pay the price."

Then, she issued her final, unforgivable order: "Kill her. Make it look like an accident. Make her suffer."

Those three men. They followed her orders. They violated me. They brutalized me.

In the dark, surrounded by pain and terror, my heart stopped beating.

My soul broke free, rising above my broken shell, watching as they tossed my lifeless body into a ditch.

Annabelle. She was the one who orchestrated my murder.

And now, here she was, lying in Christian's arms, playing the innocent victim, while her body—weakened by a real disease—was finally paying off her karmic debt.

Christian was still talking, still demanding answers, still refusing to believe I was dead.

But I knew. I knew all his efforts were in vain. My physical body was long gone.

My sweet Kaelen, my daughter, was the only mark I had left in this cruel world.

Elara Morgan's POV:

Wearing a mask of carefully crafted vulnerability, Annabelle weakly reached out, her fingers lightly brushing against Christian's expensive suit jacket.

"Christian... my head hurts..." Her voice was soft and tremulous, barely a whisper.

He was instantly at her side, his previous cold demeanor vanishing as if it had never existed.

"Annabelle, my love. Are you alright? We should get you back to the car." His doting concern was nauseating.

It was a cruel reminder of his misplaced devotion, his blindness, and his ultimate betrayal.

"I'm so sorry, Christian," she murmured, crocodile tears welling in her eyes. "About Elara... I know she suffered a lot. I wish so much that I could have saved her."

The lie tasted like ashes in my phantom mouth.

"But I have to live. I have to be with you, Christian. Forever."

She was voicing her true desires, hidden beneath layers of deceit.

He kissed her forehead. "You will, Annabelle. I promise. I will save you."

A flash of absolute determination crossed his eyes.

My heart gave a phantom lurch. A cold, dark premonition wrapped tightly around me.

No. Please, not Kaelen. Don't hurt our daughter.

I screamed my pleas into the void in utter desperation.

My cries went unheard; my warnings were ignored. I was nothing but a cold breeze, a fleeting shadow.

Christian gave a curt nod to one of his guards. "Bring the child."

The burly bodyguard with the sneer marched into Bertram's house. Moments later, he reemerged, dragging Kaelen by the arm. He hauled her straight up to the flat roof of the single-story building.

Right to the edge of the crumbling eaves.

Despite his severe injuries, Bertram struggled to his feet.

"Christian, what are you doing?! Let her go! She is your daughter! Your own flesh and blood!" His voice was ragged and desperate.

Christian's eyes flickered with ice.

"My daughter? Spare me the nonsense, old man. Elara ran off with some farmer and popped out a bastard." He waved his hand dismissively.

"Did you know Annabelle begged me to spare him? She wanted to be lenient about Elara's mistakes."

No!

My soul shrieked, my ghostly hands balling into useless fists.

He had it all wrong! It was all Annabelle's doing!

A painful memory pierced through my dreamlike fog.

Six years ago. Christian's birthday party.

Annabelle handing me a glass of champagne. "A toast to you, sister. To your happiness."

I remembered the strange, bitter aftertaste, the sudden wave of dizziness, and the blurred lights of the opulent ballroom.

I felt it then—a chill twisting in my gut.

I knew something was wrong.

I made an excuse, stumbling away, trying to escape the crowded room to get some fresh air.

But the drug was too strong.

I collapsed in a hallway, my body burning, my consciousness fading into a haze.

When I woke up, groggy and disoriented, Christian was lying next to me.

He was right there, my husband. And my body, though the drugs hadn't fully worn off, told me exactly what had happened.

It was a night of passion, a blurry but precious memory—and yet, it had been entirely orchestrated by my vicious sister.

Now, as Christian stood below Kaelen, threatening her life, I finally realized the true depths of Annabelle's depravity.

She wouldn't even spare a child!

Christian, if you never loved me, why did you marry me?

My ghostly tears fell cold upon my phantom cheeks.

Why did you spend two years pampering me, only to toss me aside for her? If Annabelle was who you truly wanted, why didn't you go to her that night?

Christian's head snapped up.

His gaze seemed to lock with mine for a fraction of a second.

My soul. A shiver ran down my spine.

He shuddered and shook his head, as if trying to dislodge a bad thought.

"Elara!" he bellowed. "I'm giving you one last chance! Show yourself, or the kid dies!"

No! Please, Christian, don't do this! She's innocent! She's your own blood!

I screamed, clawing frantically at the empty air, trying to grab Kaelen, to pull her back from the ledge.

My hands grasped nothingness. Utterly powerless.

Bertram fell to his knees, clutching his broken arm, pleading, "Christian, I beg of you! She's your daughter! Don't do this!"

Christian ignored him, his eyes glued to his watch.

He stared at the countdown, his face a mask of apathy.

In the corner, Annabelle watched, a cruel smirk playing on her lips. Her eyes gleamed with triumph, silently celebrating the torment of my departed soul.

"Murderer!" my spirit snarled, lunging at her, only to pass right through her frail body. She felt nothing. She saw nothing.

"Ten," Christian announced, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Nine... Eight..."

My phantom knees buckled, and I collapsed onto the dusty earth, a primal wail tearing from my nonexistent lungs.

No, my baby. My Kaelen.

"...Three... Two... One!" Christian's voice boomed like thunder, a definitive death sentence. "Let her go!"

Without a second's hesitation, the bodyguard shoved Kaelen off the roof.

Kaelen!

My scream was cut short, choked by a silent, suffocating horror.

I threw myself forward, arms outstretched, desperately trying to catch her, to break her fall.

But my ghostly hands passed right through her tiny body.

In a desperate bid, Bertram forced himself up and lunged forward, trying to catch her.

But one of Christian's guards kicked him squarely in the chest, sending him sprawling. Bertram coughed, blood welling at the corner of his mouth, his eyes sliding shut as he lay motionless.

My gaze was locked on my daughter, watching helplessly as she slammed into the ground.

A sickening thud.

She lay there, looking like a broken little doll.

Blood pooled from the corner of her mouth, staining the dusty earth a stark crimson.

"Mommy... Grandpa Bertram..." she murmured, her voice so faint it was barely there, her innocent eyes glazing over with pain and terror.

Finally, she let out a trembling, shuddering gasp.

Kaelen!

That scream tore my heart apart, a soul-shredding agony echoing through the very depths of my phantom being.

My baby. My only child!

Just then, a panicked young man sprinted into the chaotic scene, clutching a folded document tightly in his hand.

"Mr. Mason! The paternity report is here!"

Simultaneously, another bodyguard, covered in dirt, yelled out, "Sir! We found something! Elara's belongings! Buried in the woods!"