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!"

Elara Morgan's POV:

Christian stood there, his gaze fixed on Kaelen's tiny, motionless body. Her chest barely rose and fell, emitting only weak, desperate gurgles.

He let out a cold, sharp laugh.

"Still playing dead, Elara? You truly have a heart of stone. Watching your own creation... fall to her death."

He still thought it was a scam. Still thought I was hiding in the wings, coldly observing it all.

Ignoring Christian's callous words, the young man rushed to Kaelen's side, his face pale and stricken with horror.

"She needs a doctor! We have to get her to a hospital immediately!" He reached out to scoop her up, his hands shaking violently.

Christian glared at him, his tone dripping with disdain.

"Mind your own business!"

The young man threw the document at Christian's feet.

The paper unfolded slightly, revealing the bold black print across the top.

"How is this not your business?! She's your daughter, you idiot!"

Christian's eyes fell to the paper, locking onto the words. "DNA Paternity Test Results."

Clear, irrefutable confirmation.

Christian Mason. Father.

Kaelen Mason. Daughter.

He froze.

The arrogant mask he always wore instantly shattered.

Disbelief tangled with a horrifying dawn of realization.

He looked over at Annabelle a few feet away, who was wide-eyed, feigning shock.

Then he looked back down at the report.

His lips moved, soundlessly forming words in absolute agony.

"No, this is impossible. Annabelle said..."

Annabelle, ever the manipulator, rushed to his side and threw her arms around his rigid body. "Christian, what's wrong? What happened?"

He shoved her away violently, his hands balling into tight fists at his sides. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscles in his cheeks twitched.

He stared at the report, then at Kaelen's motionless form, then back down at the report.

"Where is she?" he roared, his voice hoarse and trembling. "Elara! Where are you?! You'll pay for this! You'll pay for everything!"

He still didn't get it. He still thought I was alive, still thought I was to blame for this cruel reality.

A pale-faced bodyguard hesitantly took a step forward.

"Sir... we... we found something else." He swallowed hard, his eyes nervously darting toward the woods. "We found a... a grave. With her name on it."

Christian's body went rigid.

His eyes widened, a flicker of sheer terror flashing in their depths.

He fought to compose himself, desperately wanting to brush it off as just another trick.

"A grave?" he spat. "Nonsense. Just another one of Elara's elaborate ploys. She wants to hide, wants me to think she's dead so she can escape the consequences. It won't work."

He was lying to himself.

Perhaps he even realized he was lying to himself, but he refused to admit it. His voice was too raspy, too fragile.

"Take me there."

He strode toward the woods, his usually confident gait turning into a frantic stumble.

Christian had clearly realized something.

Annabelle tried to stop him, her hands grabbing his arm. "Christian, wait! You're not feeling well! Let the guards handle it!"

He shook her off, his eyes glazed over, staring blankly at some unseen point in the distance.

He didn't even register Annabelle's presence. The mention of my grave had completely derailed his thoughts, shattering his carefully constructed reality.

A painful echo suddenly struck him, a whisper he had ignored for far too long.

He remembered the old pastor's desperate pleas.

Annabelle watched him leave, her perfectly manicured nails digging deep into her palms.

Her usually calculating eyes turned dark and venomous with jealousy.

"Even in death, you won't let him go, will you, Elara?" she hissed under her breath. "But it doesn't matter. You're dead. And he's mine now. Forever."

She cast a chilling, malicious glare at Kaelen lying on the ground.

"What are you thinking, Annabelle?" my ghostly voice shrieked, positioning myself between her and my child. "She's still breathing! Faintly, but she is! Don't touch her!"

Annabelle merely sneered, a cold smile curling her lips, before turning to follow Christian.

They walked down the overgrown path, the air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. They arrived at a secluded little clearing.

A simple wooden cross stood askew in the dirt. Carved roughly by hand was my name:

Elara Morgan. Beloved mother and friend.

Christian stared blankly, his face drained of all color.

His lips trembled; his hands were clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists. The writing on the cross blurred before his eyes.

He tried to speak, but his throat was choked, painfully dry.

A low, guttural sound—half-sob, half-roar—ripped from his throat.

"No! This isn't real!" he bellowed, his voice tearing through the silence. "Dig it up! Dig it up right now! I don't believe it!"

A young guard hesitated. "Sir... with all due respect... we shouldn't disturb the dead."

Christian's eyes were bloodshot, consumed by grief and wild denial.

"Hurry up! Now! I have to see it for myself!"

Terrified by his unhinged fury, the guards had no choice. They grabbed the cross, yanked it from the ground, and started digging. The soil was loose and damp; it gave way easily.

I watched in silence as they uncovered the crude wooden coffin. It was small and cheap.

The lid was pried open. The air grew heavy with an unspeakable dread, as if time itself had frozen. The world held its breath.