William Miller arrived two hours later.
His clothes were a bit disheveled, with glaring lipstick marks on his collar.
It was obvious he had just come from flirting with someone.
Finding a staff member, he sneered, “Where are Olivia Brown's ashes? Wasn't I supposed to pick them up?”
Once the staff confirmed his identity, they handed him the box containing my ashes.
William Miller took it casually, a mocking glint in his eyes.
“Are you sure this is really Olivia Brown’s ashes? You didn’t just throw in some random bits to trick me, did you?”
The staff was taken aback. “Mr. Miller, this is indeed Mrs. Brown’s ashes; it’s all recorded. Would you like to see the documentation?”
William Miller smirked, “No need, I trust you.”
I let out a sigh of relief. For some reason, even though I was dead, my spirit lingered.
I thought it might be because I hadn’t been laid to rest properly.
Now that William Miller believed I was dead, even if he hated me, he would probably handle my burial out of respect for our history, wouldn’t he?
But before I could feel relieved, the next moment, William Miller suddenly exclaimed.
The urn slipped from his hands, and my ashes scattered across the floor.
William Miller laughed cruelly, “Oops, my hand slipped.”
With that, he stomped his foot down, grinding my ashes under his shoe.
I gasped, meeting his mockingly amused gaze. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
Until my ashes were completely lost in the cracks of the ground, blending with the dust.
Only then did William Miller finally withdraw his foot with satisfaction.
He chuckled at the staff’s shocked expressions, “Make sure to tell Olivia Brown that this little stunt was quite novel, but ultimately a failure.”
“In a few days, it will be my mom’s memorial. She better go to my mom's grave to atone for her sins. Otherwise, even if she really is dead, I wouldn’t mind digging up her body myself to desecrate it.”
The last words dripped with coldness, sending shivers down everyone’s spine.
But I knew he was capable of such a thing.
I suddenly felt relieved that my body had already been cremated.
Otherwise, that scene would have been unbearable.
Before the staff could even respond, William Miller was called away by a phone call.
Strangely enough, my spirit trailed right beside him. I found myself reluctantly seated in the passenger seat, listening to him chat with the woman on the other end of the line.
I recognized that voice—Isabella Miller, the adopted daughter of the Millers. Back when William and I were still in love, she’d approached me, urging me to walk away from him. When I refused, she started targeting me, spreading rumors at my company and orchestrating harassment. William found out and gave her a harsh lesson, vowing to kick her out if she ever tried to bully me again. That put her in her place.
But now, when he mentioned me, William’s expression turned noticeably colder.
“Why bring her up? It’s bad luck. She isn’t really dead.”
“What if she really is dead, William? What would you do then?” Isabella’s voice was probing.
My heart tightened, and I instinctively turned to look at William. If it were the William I used to know, he wouldn’t just be heartbroken over my death; he’d have been torn apart by the slightest scratch on my hand. He used to call me his treasure, promising to keep me safe in his heart forever.
But now, he coldly replied, “Then I’d throw a three-day party and set off fireworks all over town to celebrate.”
I stared at him in disbelief, realizing just how deep his hatred for me ran. To him, my death was something to be celebrated.
But William, I really am dead. You just don’t believe it yet.
The car stopped in front of a bridal shop. William Miller strode inside with a sense of urgency, just like the day he’d brought me to one after we secretly got married. Back then, he couldn’t wait to see me in a wedding dress. He had held me close, telling me I was the most beautiful bride in the world.
But now, he looked at Isabella Miller with the same soft gaze as she stood there, dressed in white. He gently brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, his voice tender. “You look beautiful.”
Isabella blushed, lowering her head with a shy smile. When she looked back up, her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “William, I’ve waited so long for you.”
Stunned, I watched in disbelief as Isabella leaned in and kissed William’s cheek. Desperately, I tried to stop it, reaching out, only for my hand to pass straight through William’s body. Helpless, I stood there, watching as he slid a ring onto Isabella’s finger.
How could this be? Why her? She’s the one who caused his mother’s death.
William Miller!
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out—just the raw, silent cry of a broken heart. I stood frozen, numb, as Isabella twirled in front of the mirror, glowing with excitement. Suddenly, she asked, “William, is she alright?”
We both knew who she meant. William’s expression turned blank, a trace of irritation flickering in his eyes.
“What could possibly be wrong? It’s just a silly stunt.”
“Are we inviting her to the wedding?”
William lowered his gaze, hiding whatever emotion lingered in his eyes. Then, out of nowhere, a malicious smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
“Of course we’ll invite her. She’s the guest of honor.”
It hit me then—William wanted me to witness his wedding. To see the moment I had once dreamed of but never had. We’d only gotten the marriage license, without the ceremony, because his mother never approved.
The wedding had become my unattainable wish.
But then, she died. A heart attack, they said. The night she passed, her last call had been to me. So naturally, William blamed me for her death.
At her funeral, he forced me to kneel by her grave for an entire day and night. The rain had been pouring down, and we’d stared at each other through the storm. His eyes were dead, filled with hate.
“Olivia Brown,” he had said, his voice cold and final. “From now on, it’s you or me. One of us has to go.”
From that moment on, I stopped being the woman he loved and became the woman he despised. He humiliated me, tormented me, and yet wouldn’t let me leave. He even brought women home, making sure I saw.
When my eyes reddened from holding back tears, he’d laugh and pat my cheek mockingly. “Does it hurt, Olivia? Well, you brought this on yourself. Who else can you blame?”
I tried to explain, but my words only seemed to fuel his anger. William was utterly convinced of my guilt. He couldn’t forgive me, not when he believed that the woman he had fought his family for, the woman he had loved so fiercely, was the reason his mother was gone.
Once Isabella Miller was gone, it was like William Miller suddenly remembered I existed.
In an act of misplaced generosity, he removed me from his blocked contacts, lazily drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he dialed my number.
For a while, I watched as the relaxed expression on his face slowly morphed into irritation. He slammed a hand against the wheel in frustration.
“Olivia Brown, ignoring my call? You must have a death wish.”
But what he didn’t realize was that it wasn’t me refusing to answer him. I couldn’t pick up the phone anymore.
Two weeks later, William finally returned to our home. He shoved the door open with force, bellowing, “Olivia Brown, get out here now!”
One door after another was thrown open, but there was no sign of me. His expression, already dark, grew even stormier.
While ordering his men to track me down, he muttered under his breath, “Olivia Brown, if you’ve run off, you’d better stay gone. Because when I catch you, I’ll break your legs.”
But the woman he wanted to punish so badly was standing right in front of him.
It didn’t take long before one of his men sent over a location. William’s face twisted into something even more sinister, and I couldn’t help but glance over in confusion—until I saw the address. Christopher Moore’s house.
“Mr. Miller, your wife’s last call was to Mr. Moore, but he claims he hasn’t seen her. We suspect he may have been involved in her disappearance.”
William’s voice was icy. “Stay put. I’m coming.”
He sped to Christopher Moore’s house, his face set in a mask of fury, kicking the door with such force it rattled in its frame. Once, twice, and on the third kick, the door finally swung open.
Christopher stood there, his expression calm, though a bruise darkened the skin beneath his eyes.
“What do you want?”
William sneered. “You hid my wife. What do you think I want?”
Christopher’s face remained blank, like a man who had given up on caring about anything.
“I didn’t hide her. She’s dead. The crematorium already notified you to pick up her ashes.”
“Still playing along with her charade, huh? Olivia must really be committed to hiding this time.”
William refused to believe I was gone. To him, this was just another one of my tricks. He raised his voice, shouting into the house, “Olivia Brown! Don’t get it twisted; just because you have Christopher Moore protecting you doesn’t mean you can skip out on my mother’s death anniversary. I’ll count to three, and if you don’t come out, I’ll make sure you regret it.”
Three, two, one.
With the count finished, William kicked Christopher hard, sending him stumbling back. He barked orders at his men to search the house for me.
Christopher Moore was kicked to the ground, and for the first time, a flash of anger crossed his usually calm face.
"William Miller, Olivia is dead. You claimed her ashes yourself. Did you forget?"
"She’s been dead for days," he seethed, grabbing William Miller by the collar and shoving him against the wall.
William’s expression darkened as he sneered, "Even now, you're still trying to hide her? Christopher Moore, you're so pathetically in love with her. But here's the thing, I’ve already ruined her beyond repair. Maybe when I’m done with her, I’ll let you have a turn."
"Not now, though. She still needs to kneel at my mother’s grave and beg for forgiveness. She’s not yours to keep."
Christopher's face turned red with rage, his grip tightening on William's collar. He spat out through clenched teeth, "William Miller, you’re a goddamn bastard."
Without warning, he threw a punch that landed square on William’s jaw, causing him to grunt in pain.
In an instant, they were locked in a vicious brawl, exchanging punches and kicks.
I remember hearing that the dead don’t feel pain. But right now, something inside my chest was swelling, like I was about to burst apart.
Christopher might have been strong, but William was trained. After a few rounds, Christopher was pinned to the ground, his face bruised and swollen.
I paced frantically, unable to do anything.
"Look at you, Moore," William taunted, holding him down. "You're pathetic. Getting beaten half to death over Olivia, and for what? She’s happily enjoying your protection, without a care in the world."
"Is she really worth it?"
Christopher let out a bitter laugh, blood dripping from his split lip. "William Miller, the real pathetic one here is you. You couldn’t even recognize your mother’s real killer. You hurt the person you claim to love. You're living a life more miserable than a stray dog."
"What the hell did you just say?" William snarled, his fist pulling back to strike again.
Suddenly, a voice interrupted the chaos.
"Mr. Miller, we found surveillance footage of the car accident. And… the autopsy report on Mrs. Miller."
William froze for a moment, allowing Christopher the chance to land a punch to his jaw.
"Ugh…"
Christopher stood up, towering over William, who lay on the floor, stunned.
"Now," he said coldly, "take your men and get the hell out of my house."
But William leaped up, shoving Christopher aside and stormed into the study.
The desk was littered with photos of me, each one showing my bloodied face, so damaged it was hard to recognize me. In some, my features were barely discernible, with one eye hanging out of its socket, and a large dent caving in my left temple.
I quickly turned away, not wanting to look at the gruesome images of my death. I knew how awful it had been. Even the forensic team had struggled to identify me at first.
But there was William, rifling through the photos as if he were searching for something, clinging to every detail. His grip was so tight that the edges of the pictures crumpled under his fingers. He listened to his subordinates' explanation, then glanced at the screen, his face contorted in disbelief.
The surveillance footage showed the moment of my car crash—two vehicles colliding head-on, my car flying through the air in an instant.
It was a horrifying sight.
William's eyes turned red instantly. His hand, gripping the mouse, trembled, yet he stubbornly watched the video over and over again.
"How did you know… she was in a car accident?" His voice was hoarse, strained.
Maybe he was wondering why Christopher Moore knew something he didn’t.
Christopher sneered. "You already know the answer. Her last call was to me."
"She barely had the strength to speak, but she used what little she had left to tell me a secret."
"What secret?" William's tone grew urgent, desperation creeping in.
But Christopher took his time, savoring William's panic, his rising fury.
"What secret?" William’s bloodshot eyes locked onto Christopher, filled with rage.
At last, Christopher’s mocking expression faded. He looked William dead in the eye and said, coldly, "She said the one who killed your mother… was Isabella."
"Impossible."
William Miller rejected the idea immediately, shaking his head in denial. "It couldn’t be Isabella. My mother loved her."
"Christopher Moore, you’re lying to me."
"This is just another setup, isn’t it? You and Olivia Brown… you’re trying to help her escape me." William’s voice rose, full of conviction.
"Christopher Moore, tell Olivia she won’t escape me. Not in this life, not even in death. She’ll always be mine."
I lowered my gaze, swallowing the bitterness in my chest.
It didn’t matter anymore. I was already dead.
Whether William believed the truth or not, it no longer held any weight.
He could never hurt me again.
I was forced to follow William as we left Christopher Moore’s house. As we walked out, I felt an intense gaze on me. Turning back, I locked eyes with Christopher. His eyes were suddenly red, lips trembling.
“Olivia.”
I froze for a few seconds, my eyes welling up. It wasn’t until he mouthed “Olivia” again that I realized—he could see me.
My nose stung with emotion, and I wanted to run to him, but somehow my body kept moving further away from him.
Sitting in the car, I felt the suffocating tension, my hands trembling with excitement.
Christopher Moore had been my childhood friend. We’d grown up together, sharing countless secrets. When I met William Miller in college, the first day we started dating, I couldn't wait to tell Christopher the news.
Back then, instead of being happy, Christopher looked at me with a complex expression.
“Do you really like him? You’re not just fooling around?”
I replied without hesitation, “I love him. The kind of love where I want to spend my life with him.”
That day, Christopher—normally chatty—suddenly became uncharacteristically quiet.
Not long after, he applied to study abroad, and as William and I faced pressure from our families, Christopher and I gradually lost touch.
Then William’s mother passed away, and his love turned to nothing but hatred for me. Christopher came back from abroad.
He asked me if I wanted to leave with him.
His eyes were determined, filled with urgency.
But I couldn’t leave William, who had become a shell of his former self. I turned down Christopher’s offer.
He was furious with me for being so weak, and not long after, he left for another two years abroad.
During those years, my love for William slowly eroded, worn down by his relentless hatred.
I wanted to leave him.
When Christopher heard, he flew back without a second thought.
But before I could leave, while paying my final respects at William’s mother’s grave, I overheard Isabella cursing at her tombstone.
It was then I learned the truth—that night William’s mother had called me, Isabella had visited her, begging her to step aside and let her be with William.
When William’s mother realized Isabella’s intentions, she was so furious that she had a heart attack. Isabella stole her medication and deliberately delayed calling for help, leading to her death.
Overcome with shock, I rushed to tell William the truth—only to remember he had long since blocked me.
He had called me vicious, and said he didn’t want anything more to do with me.
With no other option, I decided to tell him in person, but on my way to meet him, I got into a car accident.
I died on the spot.
Looking back, it was all in vain.
To William, Isabella was pure and innocent. How could he ever believe she was responsible for his mother’s death?
A phone ringing jolted me back to reality.
William Miller, who had been wearing his usual cold, indifferent expression, suddenly looked conflicted when he saw the caller ID.
"William, tomorrow’s your mom’s anniversary. Should we go together?"
"Yeah, I’ll pick you up."
"Okay."
There was a pause. Then, her voice came, hesitant. "What about Olivia? Is she coming too?"
William’s face darkened instantly, his voice cold and distant. "She’s dead."
After hanging up, he abruptly spun the car around.
I followed him to the crematorium. Even though I was just a ghost now, the place still creeped me out, especially at this hour.
William, as if he couldn’t feel the chill in the air, banged hard on the crematorium door.
"Where are Olivia Brown’s ashes? I want them back."
The staff member, taken aback, stared at him. Recognition flickered in his eyes—he knew this was the same man who had scattered my ashes.
"Mr. Miller, I’m sorry, but Ms. Brown’s ashes were blown away by the wind. We couldn’t recover them."
I remember that moment all too well—he hadn’t just scattered them; he crushed them beneath his feet.
And now he wanted them back?
What, so he could humiliate me all over again? Maybe he planned to scatter my ashes at his mother’s grave, rubbing it in one last time.
The tension in the air thickened as William grabbed the guy by the collar, his voice dangerous and low.
"Don’t lie to me. There was no wind that day. You’ve got three minutes to hand over Olivia Brown’s ashes."
William had changed. He wasn’t the man I used to know. He’d become ruthless, a stone-cold businessman who never took No for an answer.
The staff member slumped against the wall, a hint of a mocking smile tugging at his lips.
"Mr. Miller, I’m sorry, but we really don’t have Ms. Brown’s ashes. What we gave you was all of them. You’re the one who knocked them over."
"If you keep pushing it, we’ll have to call the police."
For a moment, William just stood there, stunned. It seemed to hit him, finally—that he had already scattered my ashes.
His hands dropped, and he staggered out of the crematorium, his steps shaky.
I glanced back at the poor staff member, feeling sorry for him, before my body—no longer under my control—followed William back out into the cold, empty night.
The night was thick, wrapping everything in darkness. William Miller's face was barely visible in the dim light as we left the crematorium. He hadn’t said a word since, and the car remained silent, almost stifling. Even though I knew he couldn’t see me, I still felt uneasy, like I was walking on nails.
The car finally came to a stop, and William turned off the engine. He leaned back in the seat, his dark eyes fixated on the blackness outside the window. He didn’t move. He just sat there, staring into the void, for what felt like forever.
Dawn broke slowly, the first light creeping up on the horizon. William, who hadn’t slept all night, now had deep shadows under his eyes, and I noticed the red veins streaking across his tired gaze. I hesitated for a moment, then reached out to touch his face. His skin was cool to the touch, but it was the tear stains that shocked me.
He had cried, and I hadn’t even noticed.
My fingers recoiled as though burned, trembling as I pulled them back. For a moment, a twisted smile tugged at my lips.
Perhaps he wasn’t grieving; maybe he was crying tears of joy. After all, his enemy was dead. That would make sense, wouldn't it?
Today was the anniversary of Mrs. Miller’s death. For the past two years on this day, William would storm into the house, dragging me out to the car without a word. He’d take me straight to her grave and force me to kneel there, not for an hour, not even for a few hours, but for an entire day and night.
Kneeling wasn't enough, though. I had to bow, apologize, beg for forgiveness. By the time it was over, I could barely stand, and my forehead would be raw, smeared with blood. But William? He was always satisfied, telling me that I deserved every bit of it.
He even used to say that after I died, I’d rot in hell for eternity, unable to find peace.
Turns out, he was right. I didn’t even make it to hell.
This year, there were only two people left standing at Mrs. Miller’s grave: William Miller and Isabella Miller.
The sight of Isabella Miller always made me tremble uncontrollably. She was the one responsible for William’s mother’s death, and yet, here he was, tenderly brushing a strand of hair away from her face, his touch so gentle it was almost unbearable to watch.
Isabella knelt before the grave, her expression full of sorrow.
"Mom, William and I came to see you. Oh, and Olivia Brown—she’s dead. You can rest easy now."
William, crouched next to the gravestone, wiped away the dirt and smudges with calm precision. His face betrayed nothing.
"Mom, there’s more good news. I’m going to marry Isabella," he said evenly. "She’s the one you practically raised. I bet you’d be happy about that, wouldn’t you?" His voice was soft, almost wistful.
"As for Olivia Brown…" His voice dropped to a murmur. "Mom, I regret it."
