After they left the hospital, my soul followed them home.

Inside the living room, my daughter Chiara picked up the plush bunny sitting on the couch, her fingers curling around it instinctively.

Leila shot her a look of disdain.

“Chiara, toss that thing out. I’ll buy you something way better.”

Chiara hesitated for a moment, then gently pulled the toy closer to her chest.

She’s allergic to dust mites, but she’s always loved stuffed animals. I spent weeks searching for the right materials and hand-stitched that bunny myself—hypoallergenic and safe.

When I gave it to her, she actually smiled at me.

Floating above, I saw the flicker of conflict in her eyes.

For a moment, I felt a tiny spark of relief.

But the very next second, Chiara said, “Okay!”

She threw the bunny out the door like it was nothing more than trash.

Watching her throw away something I made with so much love, my soul felt like it was being torn apart.

Leila gave a satisfied smile. “Good girl. I already ordered the newest toy sets for you.”

She always used gifts to win Chiara's affection, using toys as weapons to push me aside. She never cared whether those toys triggered her allergies.

Later that night, when Leila brought one of those dust-filled toys into Chiara’s room, panic surged through me.

I tried to intervene. I tried everything.

But I was just a ghost now.

No one could see me. No one could hear me.

That same night, Chiara broke out in hives and was rushed to the hospital.

Leila looked at her rash-covered skin as if it were a bother. Any kindness she had ever shown was just for show—to make me suffer. Now that I was gone, she didn’t need to pretend anymore.

“Peter,” Leila said, fanning herself dramatically, “the air here is awful. I feel like I can’t even breathe.”

Peter nodded without looking at Chiara. “Mm. Just get some rest. The nurses will take care of her.”

And with that, Leila disappeared. Meanwhile, Peter buried himself in work.

For the next three days, Chiara remained completely alone in that hospital room.

I hovered nearby, helpless. My little girl was only six years old. She was still just a baby.

I’d always thought it was Leila who poisoned her against me, who made her grow distant.

Now, watching Chiara cry quietly under the covers, my heart twisted.

During a dressing change, a nurse observed bruises and needle marks on her hands and silently sighed.

“It’s always better when the real mom is around,” the nurse murmured. “Last time you reacted, it was your mom who carried you in. Poor woman was white as a sheet and stayed up all night holding you.”

Chiara blinked, confused. “My mom brought me in? Not Aunt Leila?”

The nurse shook her head with certainty. “Nope. It was your mother. I remember her clearly.”

Chiara stared at the ceiling, stunned, while pain clawed through my chest.

That night was burned into my memory. I held her hand all night, whispering comfort as she slept with a fever. But Leila stopped by in the morning just for a moment and somehow made Chiara believe she’d been there the entire time.

I tried to explain to Peter and begged him to believe me, but he didn’t.

“I saw it with my own eyes,” he snapped. “Leila was the one taking care of her!”

Later, the nurse handed Chiara a cup of medicine. She took one sip and grimaced.

“What is this?” she asked.

The nurse explained gently, “Anti-allergy meds. You’re severely allergic to dust mites, remember? You’ve got to stay away from plush toys, and don’t skip doses."

As the nurse listed precautions, my daughter’s face grew paler and paler.

When I was alive, I always made sure to avoid allergens and to ensure she took her medication regularly.

But Leila would always say, 'If the kid doesn’t want to take medicine, don’t make her. Let Auntie take her out to play instead.'

Eventually, Chiara grew closer to Leila, who spoiled her. Now, those memories played vividly in her mind, and her eyes filled with tears. She finally seemed to understand everything I had done for her.

Finally, Peter showed up.

Chiara looked up at him, her voice trembling as she cried, “Daddy… I miss Mommy.”

Peter wrapped her in his arms and gently rubbed her back.

“Leila hasn’t been feeling well. She said she’ll come visit you soon.”

In the past, Chiara would’ve been thrilled to hear that.

But this time, she shook her head.

Tears filled her eyes as she said, “Not Aunt Leila. I mean my mommy. Daddy, can we find Mommy? I really miss her…”

Peter had no response. He simply held her tighter.

Outside the door, Leila, who had planned to visit that day, paused in the hallway. She overheard every word.

Her face darkened.

Right there, she took out her phone and made a call.

“This brat’s not worth the trouble either," Leila said in anger. "I thought she was easy to manipulate, but turns out she’s just another ungrateful little punk who misses that woman. Fine. Let her go join her mother.”

Her tone was breezy, like she was chatting about lunch. But her words sent a freezing chill through me.

What was Leila planning?

After Chiara was discharged, Peter returned to the office.

A folder was waiting for him on his desk. Inside were divorce papers and a hefty stack of documents revealing all his affairs.

“Divorce?” Peter stared at the papers, stunned. “So now she’s in love with someone else? Wants to leave me? Where is she? If she’s serious about divorcing me, why doesn’t she say it to my face?”

His assistant, Benedict, hesitated. “Mr. Young, Miss Selene is dead. The funeral is this afternoon.”

Peter froze. “What do you mean by dead?”

He shot to his feet, face twisted with disbelief.

Then he laughed, incredulous. “Now, Selene’s dead and she wants a divorce?!”

Just days ago, Leila had told him I was out with another man, having dinner, shopping, and staying in hotels. She even showed him fake photos that haunted his mind.

“Sir,” Benedict said carefully, “the funeral is for your wife. All the documentation checks out. Miss Selene even bought her burial plot ahead of time. It’s likely she really has passed.”

Peter’s gaze darkened.

With a sharp slam, he threw the papers onto the desk.

“I don’t believe it!” He snarled the words through clenched teeth. “That woman lives to manipulate. First divorce, now a funeral? I’ll see for myself what kind of stunt she’s pulling now.”

My funeral was quiet. Not a single person showed up except Ryan.

He stood alone in the dim chapel, dressed in black, his face pale with grief.

For days, he’d been searching for a lawyer, even though most turned him down the second they heard he was planning to sue the CEO of the Young Group.

Still, he never stopped trying.

Suddenly, the heavy doors of the memorial hall burst open.

Peter stormed in with Leila following behind him in her usual designer heels.

Ryan stepped forward, trying to block them, but Peter waved him off.

“Hold him down,” Peter ordered, and his bodyguards sprang into action.

Then, with confident strides, Peter walked straight up to my memorial photo.

“Tsk,” he scoffed. “Looks pretty realistic. Faking your death to get a divorce and run off with another man?”

Peter then let out a bitter laugh, grabbed the framed photo, and slammed it to the floor.

“No!” Ryan yelled, fighting the guards, eyes wide with shock and fury.

Floating nearby, my soul watched it all in stunned silence.

Did Peter really hate me this much?

Meanwhile, Leila stepped closer. Her eyes landed on the urn behind the photo.

She wrinkled her nose as she said, “Peter, Selene actually went through the trouble of using ashes.”

Then, twisting her lips into a sneer, she added, “But what’s even in there? Baby formula? That’s disgusting.”

Peter’s jaw clenched. He grabbed a glass of water from a nearby table and headed toward the urn.

“Let’s find out, shall we? Let’s see how long she can keep this charade going.”

Ryan’s eyes went wild as he shouted, “Stop! Peter, stop! Those are her real ashes!”

But Peter's bodyguards forcibly held him down, and all he could do was scream in desperation.

“She’s really dead! Selene is gone!”

Peter ignored him. He flicked his wrist, causing the water to spill, soaking the urn and splashing the ashes.

Beside him, Leila stood there, satisfied.

That water felt like it splashed straight onto my soul, ice-cold and ruthless. I screamed, trying to reach them, to stop them, but I went right through the air.

All I could do was watch as they desecrated the last remains of me.

Ryan trembled with rage.

Then, with a wild burst of energy, he broke free and punched Peter hard across the face.

“Why are you doing this, Peter? Why can’t you just let Selene rest in peace?! She’s already dead!” Ryan roared. “Have you forgotten who saved our mother? How could you repay her kindness with this cruelty?”

Peter froze as he asked, “What the hell are you talking about?”

Genuinely confused, he frowned and kept going. “Our mother collapsed on the street. It was Leila who got her to the hospital. How could it have been Selene? I know you’ve always liked Selene, but don’t twist the truth to defend her lies.”

“It’s not a lie!” Ryan shouted. “I found the surveillance footage!”

From the corner of the room, Leila visibly paled. Her legs buckled slightly as the blood drained from her face.

But Peter didn’t notice.

Meanwhile, the guards pushed Ryan back onto the floor, his face flushing from the pressure. One of them struck him hard, and his body went limp.

I screamed again, desperate to stop them, but I couldn't do anything.

That moment—years ago, when Peter first fell for Leila—had been built on a lie.

What he never realized was that I was the one who had saved his mother.

Now, he stood there, silent and uncertain, Ryan’s words echoing in his mind.

Suddenly, his phone started vibrating violently in his pocket.

He answered.

A chilling voice came through the speaker. “Mr. Young, your daughter is with me. Pay ten million dollars, and I’ll let her go.”

Instantly, I remembered what Leila had said outside my daughter’s hospital room.

“It’s her! Peter, it’s Leila! She took Chiara! Save Chiara! Please save our daughter!” I shouted, trying desperately to make him hear me.

But he didn’t move.

Leila stepped in smoothly, her voice calm and measured. “The nanny said Chiara’s at home watching TV. She’s fine. This has to be a scam.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Who else would try something like this?”

I shook my head frantically in front of him.

Don’t believe her. Don’t believe Leila.

Then, he glanced down at his phone and let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Really, Selene? Now you’re pretending to be kidnapped? Using your own daughter? You have no soul.”

He paused, then spat into the phone. “You want $10 million? You’re not getting a dime. Go run your scam somewhere else.”

The voice on the other end dropped its act.

“No money? Fine. Your daughter’s gone. Her fingers are so soft. Let’s start with one. Call it interest for being stingy, Mr. Young.”

Suddenly, through the speaker, Chiara let out a bloodcurdling scream.

“No!”

I threw myself in front of Peter, panic consuming me. “Peter, that’s really our daughter! Please, save her! I’m begging you!”

I moved past him repeatedly, my soul shaking with despair. I wept—tears that somehow continued to fall, even in death.

Chiara’s cries continued over the phone.

Then came her weak, shaking voice. “Mommy... Daddy, help me…”

Peter flinched, his eyes widening as he stared at the phone. He recognized that voice.

It was his daughter’s.

Just as he was about to react, Leila stepped forward and calmly ended the call.

“Scammers are getting clever,” she said softly. “They can fake voices now. Don’t fall for it.”

Peter nodded slowly, but something had shifted in his expression. Uncertainty crept into his features as a strange, persistent unease settled in his chest.

Still, he didn’t move.

Moments later, sirens wailed outside. Red and blue lights flashed through the chapel windows.

A police officer approached, his face somber.

He handed Peter a sealed evidence bag.

“Mr. Young, we received a report,” the officer began. “Your daughter... we’re sorry. We were too late. Please accept our condolences.”

Inside the bag was a small, severed finger. The nail was painted pink—Chiara’s favorite color. Peter had painted it for her himself, just last month.

It was as if a bolt of lightning had ripped through his body.

He began to tremble uncontrollably.

“Chiara? It’s really Chiara?” His voice cracked.

The officer gave him a look of quiet sympathy. “We tried to contact her mother first. But then we learned that Ms. Selene passed away a few days ago. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

Peter’s expression went blank. His gaze lost focus, fixed on nothing.

“Who?” he asked softly. “Who died?”

The officer hesitated but then said, “Mrs. Selene Young. Your wife.”

Peter didn’t speak. He stood there, frozen, as if the world had stopped turning.

His lips parted, barely audible, as he muttered, “Selene? She...died?”