What He Did After I Died

My husband, Damian, used my family’s fortune to become a god in the tech world. But he only ever worshipped one person: his childhood sweetheart.

When she shed a tear, he promised vengeance.

He dragged me, pregnant and pleading, to the top floor of his glass tower. He called it my “reflection chamber.” I called it a coffin. He sealed me inside the cold, humming metal and walked away.

My last breath was a prayer for the child he would never know.

I thought that was the end. But in the darkness, I opened my eyes. I was no longer in the cabinet. I was standing beside it, watching.

A ghost, trapped in his world.

Just then, his assistant’s voice crackled through the phone in his hand. “Mr. Blackwood… Mrs. Blackwood… shows no vital signs.”

I watched my husband’s face, waiting for the flicker of horror, of regret. Instead, a slow, cruel smile touched his lips.

“She’s playing games,” he murmured, his eyes glittering with a chilling light. “Contact the crematorium. If she wants to play dead, we’ll show her the consequences.”