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.