"Global Celebrity Chloe Monroe Sentenced to Death."

The headlines spread like wildfire. My execution had become a public spectacle, my death become a source of entertainment. News anchors discussed it as if it were nothing more than another Hollywood scandal. Social media was flooded with my final moments, my lifeless body on display for the world to see. Fans who had once adored me now condemned me with ruthless words: "She deserved it!" "What a monster!" "I can't believe I ever supported her." The betrayal stung more than the injustice of my death. They had turned on me without hesitation, without question. My entire life had been reduced to a single crime—a crime I never committed.

But as the world cheered, I opened my eyes.

I wasn’t supposed to. I had felt the sharp pain, the suffocating darkness. I had died. And yet, here I was, weightless, breathless, trapped between life and death. Below me, I saw my own corpse, discarded like garbage in a simple wooden box. There was no honor in my burial, no dignity in my final moments. The rage inside me boiled, twisting and curling into something dark. This wasn’t fair.

My mind barely had time to process it before I found myself pulled by something in somewhere familiar—Kierra’s bedroom. My younger sister sat curled in Richard’s arms, laughing, carefree, untouched by grief. My boyfriend. The man who had once whispered that he loved me, held me close, promised me forever. Seeing them together now—seeing them so comfortable in each other’s embrace—made my stomach twist. And then Kierra spoke.

“I can’t believe Chloe was so easy to fool.”

Richard smirked but still hesitated. “You really did all that to her?”

Kierra scoffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Of course I did. You think that idiot could’ve ended up in prison on her own? I made sure of it.”

I tried to move closer, but I felt like I was being pulled instead, forced to watch this unfold without control over my own presence. My sister continued, her voice filled with sickening satisfaction.

“All I had to do was pretend to be on her side. I told her I believed in her innocence, that I’d help her fight for justice. And the idiot actually fell for it! She gave me access to her inheritance, thinking I’d use it to hire her a good lawyer. But instead? I made sure she got the worst defense possible.”

Richard let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Damn, babe. That’s cold.”

Kierra shrugged, unbothered. “Please. Chloe’s been handed everything since we were kids. She was adopted into a rich family, pampered like a damn princess while I was left behind to suffer. She had it coming.”

Pain stabbed through me like a knife. I had never treated Kierra poorly. I had loved her. I had tried to protect her from our abusive father, the man who beat her while I was taken away to live in comfort. I had written her letters, called her, sent her money whenever I could. And yet, she hated me for it.

Richard rubbed slow circles against Kierra’s back. “And her friends? Did you…?”

Kierra rolled her eyes. “Do you really think I’d dirty my hands? I hired someone.”

My whole body—if I still had one—went rigid.

The memories slammed into me like a wrecking ball. The house. The blood. The lifeless bodies of my closest friends. I had woken up in that nightmare, covered in their blood, surrounded by their corpses. The shock, the horror, the desperate attempts to wake them up, to make sense of what had happened—only to be arrested before I could even process it. And Kierra had orchestrated it all.

Rage burned in my chest. I tried to grab her, to make her feel the pain I was feeling, but my hands passed through her like air. I was powerless.

Kierra sighed dramatically. “Honestly, it was almost too easy. All I had to do was plant the right evidence, and the rest took care of itself.”

Richard chuckled quietly. “And we're famous now—got a ton of opportunities, all thanks to you.”

Kierra smirked, pulling out her phone and flashing at him the bank statements. “And we're also rich now.”

My vision blurred—not that it mattered. The world had already turned against me. And my own sister was responsible.

---

I didn’t know how much time passed after that. Weeks? Months? Time meant nothing to me anymore. I was stuck in limbo, watching the world move on while I remained forgotten. I wandered the places I once loved, only to be met with hatred and scorn. I visited my friends’ graves, whispering countless apologies they would never hear. I couldn’t protect them. I couldn’t even protect myself.

Eventually, I forced myself to visit my own grave again.

It was worse than I had imagined.

There was no honor in my burial—just a crude, wooden box tossed carelessly into the dirt. People had vandalized my grave, leaving insults and garbage behind. Even to death, they refused to let me rest. I had never felt so helpless.

Then, someone appeared.

A lone figure stepped toward my grave, moving with a strange urgency. At first, I thought it was another stranger here to desecrate what little remained of me. But then… he started digging.

Panic surged through me. What the heck is he doing?! How dare he touch my body! I moved closer, screaming, but of course, no one could hear me.

The man dug with desperation, his fingers clawing at the dirt as if the world itself would collapse if he didn’t reach me in time. And then—he did. He uncovered my coffin, threw the lid open, and pulled my lifeless body into his arms.

And then… he hugged my body.

Tears ran down his face as he held me tightly, his entire body trembling. His sobs were raw, unfiltered, filled with a grief that shouldn’t exist. No one in the world had mourned me. No one had cared.

My whole face became a big question mark.

The heck? So who was he??

Rain fell in relentless sheets, soaking the earth and painting the sky in shades of gray. Thunder rumbled overhead, as if the heavens themselves mourned with him.

The man continued to clung on my lifeless body, soaked to the bone, his trembling form hunched protectively over the crude wooden coffin. His sobs cut through the storm, raw and aching.

A voice broke through the downpour.

“M-Master Ezra?!”

A voice broke through the sound of the storm. A young man in a suit, soaked from the downpour, stumbled toward him, struggling to hold an umbrella against the wind. “W-What are you doing out here? You just got out of the hospital! It’s raining—you’ll get sick again!”

Ezra said nothing. He didn’t even glance at his assistant.

Instead, he just held my body tighter.

Floating above them, I watched the scene unfold in stunned silence. Me. My body. That man.

My ghostly form hovered, unsure, as I took in the sight of the man who mourned me.

“Ezra...?” I whispered to myself. The name tickled something in the back of my mind. “Wait... I think I knew someone named Ezra. But he wasn’t like this. He was… awkward. Quiet. And definitely not this... handsome.”

The man below looked nothing like the Ezra I remembered. This Ezra was tall, broad-shouldered, with eyes like a gathering storm and a jaw clenched in anguish. His expression was so intense, so filled with pain, it made something in my chest tighten.

Then he looked up.

His eyes locked on his assistant, and for the first time, I saw it: the raw, furious grief that twisted his features into something nearly monstrous.

“I will make them pay,” Ezra said, his voice low and cold. “I will make them suffer tenfold for what they did to her.”

Even as a ghost, I shivered.

My form flickered.

But somehow, even through the chill of his rage, I felt something warm. Something... protective.

He stood up slowly, cradling my body in his arms like I was something precious. He didn’t care about the mud, or the rain, or the crowd that might be watching. He only cared about me.

---

The golden coffin gleamed under the soft lights of the funeral parlor.

My body, now dressed in white and surrounded by white lilies, looked peaceful. Like I was sleeping. Like I was still just a girl with dreams and fears and a future.

Ezra stood nearby, silent. His suit was black, sharp, tailored. The only thing out of place was the shadow in his eyes.

I followed him, floating just behind, unable to look away. He had done this for me. No one else had. No one else cared.

---

I was following Ezra when he started talking to someone on the phone, but then I suddenly heard loud flashes coming from the direction we were heading.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

Camera bulbs popped like fireworks. Microphones pushed forward. Reporters clamored, voices loud and intrusive.

Then I saw Kierra sitting at the head of the press conference, dabbing at fake tears with a silk handkerchief. She wore a white dress, as if playing the role of innocent victim.

“Chloe always hated me,” she said, her voice trembling just enough to sound believable. “Ever since we were kids, she tried to control me. She... she even tried to kill me to get rid of the 'taint' that could ruin her perfect image.”

I hovered in the corner of the room, fists clenched. My ghostly form crackled faintly with static.

Liar.

Kierra sniffled delicately, her voice faltering as she spoke. “Every time I tried to start something on my own, Chloe was always there, trying to tear it down. I know I shouldn’t be thanking anyone after what happened to my sister, but I have to thank justice for giving us what we deserve. Thank you so much.” She paused, a brief, almost rehearsed moment before continuing. “I’d also like to thank the businesses that took me on as a sponsor and the films that cast me, even though... my sister was the murderer.” With that, she bowed deeply, a mockery of humility.

Beside her, Richard placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, his expression stoic. “I never imagined Chloe was capable of something like this. I trusted her, but Kierra opened my eyes to the truth. And on behalf of my ex-girlfriend... I want to apologize as well.”

I wanted to scream. The words burned in my throat, but I knew no one would hear me.

Fucking liars!

The fury surged through me, but there was nothing I could do. I longed to lash out, to make them feel even a fraction of the pain they’d caused me, but with this ghostly body, I was powerless.

The fans online flooded the livestream chat:

Poor Kierra. Stay strong.

Chloe was always jealous. It makes sense now.

Richard deserves better.

It was like watching them bury me all over again.

But then—

The doors slammed open.

Ezra walked in, flanked by two police officers. His presence alone silenced the room. Cold. Controlled. Powerful.

He moved straight to the podium, ignoring the shocked gasps and whispers. The officers placed thick folders onto the table. Evidence.

“This press conference is over,” Ezra said calmly. “The truth will now be presented.”

The officers didn’t hesitate. In less than a minute, Kierra and Richard were cuffed, their faces stunned, then horrified, as Ezra handed over evidence. Video files, forged documents, audio recordings, bank statements. Everything.

The truth hit like a nuclear bomb.

Every lie they told, every mask they wore—it all shattered in front of the world.

Ezra didn’t stop there. He made sure every sponsor, every company, every ally that had helped them destroy me got exposed. People who had spit on my grave? Public apologies, fines, blacklisting. The internet turned on them just as fast as it had turned on me.

I watch as he did all this without pause, without sleep—driven only by grief and vengeance. I floated beside him late one night as he returned home, shoulders heavy but unwavering. I reached out, slowly, gently, and wrapped my ghostly arms around him from behind.

“Thank you,” I whispered, voice shaking with emotions I could no longer cry out.

But just as I pulled away, a strange sensation washed over me.

Ezra froze.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his head—his eyes scanning the room before locking onto my eyes.

He's looking straight at me.

My breath hitched. No… that's impossible. Can he see me?

I floated backward instinctively, my translucent fingers trembling. His eyes didn’t waver.

Then, without warning, Ezra’s body swayed.

“Master Ezra!” His assistant shouted, rushing forward.

But it was too late.

Ezra collapsed on the floor.

The room exploded into chaos—but I hovered above him, stunned, terrified, and suddenly unsure.

What just happened?

When Ezra finally opened his eyes, the first word that escaped his lips was my name.

"Chloe..."

He jolted upright, eyes wild as they scanned the unfamiliar room. I floated nearby, watching him with my heart—or whatever I had left—caught in my throat.

His assistant, a frazzled young man with worry etched into every line of his face, rushed to his side. “Master Ezra! You’re awake! Don’t move too quickly—”

“Where is she? Chloe! She was here. I saw her.”

The assistant flinched, glancing nervously toward the gold-trimmed coffin placed just across the room. “Sir… Chloe Monroe is… she’s already gone. That’s her coffin, you… you brought her here.”

Ezra turned his head slowly, as if the reality hadn’t fully sunk in until his eyes landed on the still, beautiful form inside the glass-lidded coffin. He stumbled to his feet, disbelief quickly giving way to panic. “No, no—I saw her. She was here. She touched me.”

Wait… did he really see me? Was it real?

Ezra frantically looked around. “Chloe! I know you’re here! Please, I’m begging you—show yourself! Chloe... please…”

But I’m already right here. I'm in front of you. I reach out, wanting to scream, but instead, I clasp my hands over my mouth, my heart breaking as I watch him fall apart.

“Chloe! Please! I’m sorry… I’m sorry I wasn’t there!”

In desperation, he grabbed something from the nightstand—a photo. His hands shook as he stared at the image: a younger version of himself, awkward and chubby, standing at the back of a high school group photo. And there I was, smiling, surrounded by my friends, completely unaware he was in the shot.

“No way... Is that really Ezra…?” I whispered in shock.

It really was him. Ezra Sinclair. The boy I’d barely noticed in high school. The one I’d awkwardly turned down when he tried to talk to me… the one I had been shallow and cruel to. I hadn’t liked the way he looked.

Now, there he was, broken. He collapsed to the floor, clutching the photo to his chest as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

"I'm so sorry, Chloe..." His voice trembled, raw with guilt. His hands shook as he stared at the photo, like he was trying to hold onto something that no longer existed.

His assistant rushed forward, panic in his eyes, but Ezra didn’t seem to notice. His gaze remained fixed on the picture, his breaths shallow, almost frantic. “I wasn’t there... I should’ve been there… If I hadn’t been in that coma… I could’ve saved you.”

He buried his face in his hands, unable to control the grief ripping through him. It wasn’t anger—just pure, helpless sorrow. My heart ached as I watched him fall apart, wishing more than anything I could comfort him.

I reached out, my fingers trembling, but when I tried to touch his shoulder, my hand passed right through him.

“I’m right here,” I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath. “Please, Ezra, don’t do this to yourself. It's not your fault.”

But he didn’t hear me.

---

I watch Ezra's world revolve around my dead body. Every breath he took, every step he took since waking up—it was all for me.

And it hurts to watch.

Time passed, but it felt like days blurred into weeks. People tried to reason with him—doctors, friends, even some of my old fans. They said it was time to bury me, that he needed to let go. But Ezra refused.

He refused food. Refused sleep. Refused life.

Then, one day, his sister, Elise, snapped.

“Wake the fuck up!” she screamed, slapping him hard enough to leave a red mark on his cheek. “She’s gone, Ezra! Chloe Monroe is dead! And you’re not far behind if you keep this up. You have surgery scheduled for Monday, and if you skip it again, you’ll die!”

He stared at her with empty eyes, his face unreadable.

“I’m not getting the surgery,” he said flatly.

“What?” Elise’s voice cracked with disbelief.

“I won’t do it,” he repeated, his tone devoid of emotion.

Elise’s anger flared, and in a split second, she ordered someone to take my body away from him. "Get the surgery, or you’ll never see her again."

“No!!” Ezra screamed, his voice breaking. “Try to take her from me, and I’ll end it. I’ll fucking kill myself. Do you hear me?”

Elise went pale. The room went dead silent, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. But she ordered the body removed anyway. Ezra locked himself in the room with a knife. They backed off.

Her desperation quickly turned manipulative. Elise even hired a woman who resembled me, hoping Ezra might imprint on her instead, anything to pull him back from the edge.

But when Ezra touched her, something inside him snapped. His eyes filled with horror, rage, and overwhelming grief, and in that moment, he nearly killed her.

That was the final straw.

“Do whatever the hell you want, Ezra,” Elise hissed, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and grief. Tears glistened in her eyes as she took a step back. “If you want to waste what little time you have left, be my guest. I don't care anymore!”

With that, she stormed out, the door slamming behind her.

Even after all that, I stayed. I couldn’t leave him. Even if he couldn’t see me anymore.

Day after day, I tried to reach him. I whispered, begged, and pleaded, hoping, wishing that something, anything, would break through the emptiness that consumed him.

“Please, Ezra. Live. You don’t have to do this for me. Don’t throw everything away,” I begged, but nothing changed.

His condition worsened with each passing day. The illness he should’ve fought with surgery crept in slowly, poisoning him from the inside out. He grew paler, thinner—his once-vibrant presence dimming by the hour. But through it all, his focus remained fixed on me, or rather, on my body.

He refused to let it go.

The room grew cold, and despite all the pleas, his attention was always on the still form in the coffin. It was as though he couldn't move on. As if he couldn't bear to part with the only thing that reminded him of me.

And then one night, as the hours dragged on, I saw him lying beside my coffin, his hand resting gently over mine. His expression was hollow, consumed by sorrow.

He pressed a soft, trembling kiss to my lips, the tender gesture, almost fragile, as though he feared even my body might slip away from him.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Even if you never loved me back.”

His breathing slowed, soft and shallow, as if his body itself was giving up.

And then… it stopped.

“E-Ezra...?” I called out, panic rising in my chest.

He didn’t respond.

“Ezra!” I screamed, my voice cracking.

I rushed to him, my heart pounding, but there was no sign of life. His body lay still, unmoving. The room seemed to close in on me as his soul—

I was suddenly swallowed in darkness.

The room, the coffin, even Ezra’s still form disappeared, as I was yanked backward into a vortex of shadow. My ghostly form thrashed, weightless and powerless—until something deeper, older, and far more ancient than time itself whispered through the void:

“He followed you into death… now what will you do?”