The first year after my death, my daughter was diagnosed with a terminal illness. The director of the children’s home called Lucian Blackwood, telling him they needed half a million dollars for the life-saving treatment. He was holding his childhood sweetheart, his fingers idly twirling a lock of her hair, his face a mask of cold indifference. “Don’t treat her,” he said. “If she dies, she dies. She can go keep her short-lived mother company.” In the end, with no money for treatment, my daughter died in that children’s home. The director called Lucian again. His voice was laced with irritation. “Oh? So she’s really dead this time?” 1 A full day after our daughter died, Lucian finally sauntered into the children’s home. I hadn’t seen him in a year, and the chill in his eyes had only deepened. In his hands, he carried shopping bags filled with high-end baby supplies. A sharp pain lanced through my spectral heart. Of course he was late. His new wife was already expecting. He spotted the director, his expression tightening with impatience. “Where’s the body of that little brat?” he demanded. “You’re the one who kept calling, telling me to come collect it.” The director, who had been wiping away tears, froze. She led him silently to the small, cold room where they had laid our daughter’s body. Lucian strode forward and ripped back the white sheet. He glanced down, and a cold smile touched his lips. “Not bad,” he drawled. “They did a good job on the corpse this time. How much did Janie pay you to help her pull this stunt?” A flash of anger cut through the director’s grief. “Mr. Blackwood, Lily is truly gone. If we didn’t need a parent’s signature for the cremation, I would never have disturbed you.” Lucian ignored her completely, his gaze fixed on the small form under the sheet. “It seems you didn’t mean much to your mother, either,” he said to the body. “You’re dead, and she still won’t even show her face.” A bitter sting pricked my eyes. Lucian, it’s not that I don’t want to appear. It’s that I can’t. I’m already dead. I died a year ago. For some reason, my spirit has been tethered to my daughter ever since. I’ve spent countless nights watching her convulse in pain, watching her kneel on the cold floor and cry out my name, utterly helpless to comfort her. And her father? He was busy making a new life with his precious childhood love. Our daughter wasn’t his flesh and blood; she was a piece of trash he was desperate to throw away. “Since the little nuisance is dead,” Lucian’s voice sliced through my thoughts, “I can take the body, right?” He walked out the main entrance, took a call, and then, without a second thought, tossed our daughter’s small, shrouded body into a nearby dumpster. He didn’t stop there. He instructed his bodyguard to go to a local dog pound and bring back a few starving hounds. I froze, the horror paralyzing me for a moment before I dove into the dumpster, my ghostly hands clawing frantically, trying to pull her body out. He was going to let her be torn to pieces! But no matter how I struggled, I was powerless. I could only watch as the slobbering, desperate animals crept closer and closer. A cruel smirk twisted Lucian’s lips. “Garbage belongs in the trash,” he murmured to himself. “Janie, why would you think I’d want the trash you threw away?” Despair shot through me like a bolt of lightning, from the soles of my feet to the crown of my head. I screamed, a silent, spectral shriek. “Lucian, that’s our daughter!” The hounds lunged. As cold blood spattered against the grimy pavement, a flicker of confusion crossed Lucian’s face, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. “The props are convincing, I’ll give them that,” he said, his voice hard. “But it’s a shame, really. Even if the little brat were actually dead, I wouldn’t feel a thing.” “Just like her mother,” he added, his voice dripping with venom. “You should have both been out of my life long ago.” He watched, satisfied, until the dogs had left nothing but a mangled, unrecognizable ruin. Only then did he turn to leave. Just then, the director came rushing out of the home, stopping dead in her tracks at the horrific scene. She pointed a trembling finger at Lucian. “You… you…” Lucian’s eyes were like ice. He looked at her with smug certainty. “You tell Janie that if she wants custody, she can stop hiding. This little trick, faking the brat’s death, isn’t going to fool me.” His voice dropped, becoming a low, menacing snarl. “The anniversary of my mother’s death is coming up. If she doesn’t show herself, I won’t mind making this fake death a real one.” He bit down on the words “real one,” the sound chilling to the bone. Anyone else might have thought he was joking. What kind of father could be so monstrous to his own child? But I knew. He meant every word. And in a sick, twisted way, I was suddenly grateful. Grateful that Lily was already gone. Before the director could even form a response, Lucian was gone, flanked by his bodyguards. My soul was dragged along in his wake. 2 The car pulled up to a lavish villa. As they reached the gate, a pregnant woman ran out to greet them, her face alight with joy. The figure was painfully familiar. As she threw her arms around Lucian, I recognized her. Christine. Lucian’s childhood sweetheart. During the years Lucian and I were together, she had humiliated me time and time again, telling me to stay away from him, calling me a low-life whose entire salary wouldn’t cover one of Lucian’s dinners. I ignored her, so she started booking appointments at the hospital where I worked, spreading rumors that I was a quack, even hiring thugs to try and cripple the hands I used for surgery. When Lucian found out, he used his company’s power to crush her family’s business, threatening to bankrupt them entirely if she ever bothered me again. Her father had no choice but to lock her away. And now, here she was. She fussed over him, asking where he’d been. When the conversation turned to our daughter, Lucian’s handsome face turned to stone. “Hah. The bodyguards told me long ago that the brat was perfectly healthy. This is all just a game Janie cooked up with the children’s home to manipulate me.” A flicker of guilt crossed Christine’s face. “But… what if she… what if she really is dead?” she asked, testing the waters. My heart felt like it was being squeezed by an icy fist. I stared at Lucian, waiting. The old Lucian, the man I had loved, would have stayed up all night worrying if our daughter so much as sneezed. He used to say that Lily and I were the most important people in his life. Now, his face was a cold mask. “Then I’ll hire a band,” he said, his tone clipped and annoyed. “We’ll celebrate for three days and three nights.” The next morning, Christine’s water broke. Lucian rushed her to the hospital. After a few hours in the delivery room, she gave birth to a baby girl, whose eyes were a perfect mirror of Lucian’s. His gaze softened as he held the newborn, refusing to let her go for even a second. He looked just like he had when I gave birth to Lily. But now, not even a week after our daughter’s death, he was pouring all that fatherly love onto another child. A phone rang on the bedside table. Lucian answered, and his secretary’s urgent voice came through the speaker. “Mr. Blackwood, my apologies, but there’s an emergency at the office. We need you to come in.” After a brief conversation, Lucian placed the infant gently beside Christine. “Be a good girl,” he cooed, his voice soft. “Don’t bother your mommy, or Daddy will have to teach you a lesson, no matter how little you are.” Those words struck me like a bolt of lightning. My spirit trembled. Christine’s child… was Lucian’s? How could it be? Why Christine? She’s the one who killed your mother, Lucian! I wanted to scream, rushing to his ear to roar the truth. But how could he hear the voice of the dead? Slowly, a cold calm settled over me. Just as Lucian was about to leave, a doctor entered the room, holding a file, his brow furrowed with concern. “Mr. Blackwood,” he began, “after running some tests, we’ve discovered an issue with the baby’s heart. If she doesn’t receive a transplant before she’s three, it’s unlikely she’ll live to adulthood.” He paused, the gravity of his words sinking in. “A suitable heart will be very difficult to find. It has to come from a donor under the age of ten, otherwise, the risk of rejection is too high.” The doctor’s words cast a pall over the room. Lucian’s face was a canvas of shock, which quickly morphed into a chilling resolve. “Leave it to me,” he said, his voice steady. “I have a solution.” After the doctor left, he beckoned a bodyguard into the room. “Bring me that little brat.” I understood instantly. He wanted to take Lily’s heart and give it to this new child. The bodyguard nodded and left immediately. Lucian stared out the window, his expression hardening into something predatory. “Janie,” he whispered to the empty air, “this is what you and your daughter owe me. A life for a life. Fair, isn’t it?” A bitter laugh escaped my spectral lips. When I was alive, I could never convince him I didn’t kill his mother. Why would I hope for him to believe me in death? After all, every piece of evidence in his mother’s death pointed directly at me. And Lucian believed it. The day of his mother’s funeral, he dragged me before her memorial tablet and slammed my head against the floor, again and again. He clutched her memorial plaque to his chest, his eyes bloodshot with hatred as he stared at me. “Janie,” he had hissed, “this isn’t over until one of us is dead.” 3 From that day on, I went from being the woman Lucian loved most to the woman he hated most. He tortured me, and he tortured our daughter, who looked so much like me. At only a few years old, she was forced to do chores, to scrub and clean. The slightest mistake, the smallest sign of imperfection, and she would be viciously punished with a cane. I tried to take her and leave, to file for divorce, but he wouldn’t allow it. He even threatened to break our daughter’s legs if I ever mentioned the word “divorce” again. Seeing the despair in my eyes, he would just smile that cruel smile, tipping my chin up with his fingers. “Hopeless, isn’t it, Janie? You deserve every second of this.” But I didn’t kill his mother. I hadn’t. Even though she never liked me, always believed I wasn’t good enough for her son. Even though she publicly humiliated me, calling me a shameless slut. Even though she once slapped me in front of the media. I never hated her. Because I could never forget that to marry me, Lucian had been willing to break ties with the mother who had raised him all alone. How could he not shatter when he believed that same mother died at the hands of the woman he loved? By evening, the bodyguard returned. When Lucian heard he couldn’t find Lily’s body, he swept everything off the coffee table, sending fruit crashing to the floor. “What?” “The… the young miss… Janie already took her.” My spectral eyes narrowed, fixing on the bodyguard. If I wasn’t standing right here, I’d have no idea how easily they could heap lies upon my name. While Christine was recovering from childbirth, Lucian hired a private investigator to find me. The moment he got a lead, he rushed to the location. He had his men break down the door and then strolled casually inside. “Janie, hand over the little brat now.” When no one answered, he sank onto the sofa and waved a hand, sending his bodyguards to search the place. They all returned empty-handed. His face was a thundercloud. He called the PI immediately. After confirming this was the last place I’d been seen, he gritted his teeth. “She can run, but she can’t hide. Janie, you’d better pray you can live the rest of your life hiding like a rat in the sewer.” I’m not hiding, Lucian. I don’t need to hide! I’m standing right in front of you, but you can’t see me! As darkness fell, Lucian’s face grew grimmer, his eyes glued to the door. Finally, there was a sound. A moment later, Dave’s figure appeared in the doorway. He saw Lucian through the crowd of bodyguards, and a flash of pure hatred crossed his face. “What are you doing in my house?” Lucian let out a derisive snort. “What am I doing? I’m looking for my wife and daughter, of course.” Dave’s expression shifted, and a grim smile spread across his lips. “I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place.” “Your wife and daughter are dead. Oh, that’s right, the daughter died because her loving father, the millionaire CEO, wouldn’t pay the half-a-million dollars to save her. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?” “Hah. You think some realistic-looking doll is going to fool me? I’m not an idiot, Dave. Now, hand them over.” A wave of pain washed over Dave’s face. His eyes, once full of life, were now like dead pools as he stared coldly at Lucian. “I told you. Your wife and daughter are dead. You collected your daughter’s body yourself.” Lucian grabbed Dave by the collar, his knuckles white. “Are you taking me for a fool?” he snarled. “That brat was a survivor. She would never just die.” “I’m warning you, get her out here now. She owes me her life, and I’m here to collect!” Just then, his phone rang. Seeing the caller ID, Lucian hit the speakerphone button, a mocking sneer on his face. “Janie, what’s the matter? Finally decided to crawl out of whatever hole you’ve been hiding in?” But the voice that answered was not mine. It was the private investigator. “Mr. Blackwood… I have some information. Through a source, I’ve learned that Janie… she died a year ago.”
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