Chapter 3

I counted the passing days like the breaths I no longer took.

On day twenty-three of my death, Liam and Margaret were already living like a long-married couple.

Every morning at 7, Margaret would have coffee and fried eggs ready when Liam woke up.

They'd share a morning kiss at the breakfast table, then talk about their plans for the day.

When he returned that evening, she had already drawn a warm bath for him, and a candlelit dinner was waiting on the table.

This normalcy tortured me far worse than any horror ever could.

It was so ordinary that it felt almost cruel.

But this morning was different.

*****

Liam slipped into his deep navy suit—his "battle armor" for important clients.

"Today's meeting with Sheppard Group is crucial," he said to Margaret while adjusting his tie. "If we can close this deal, the company will get through this rough patch."

Margaret hugged him from behind, tracing circles on his chest. "I know you'll ace it," she whispered. "I want to try cooking something new tonight. Could you come home a little early?"

"I'll try." Liam kissed her forehead. "Don't wear yourself out, babe."

I scoffed.

When I was alive, Liam had never let me disturb him before his business meetings, let alone ask him to come home early.

He had always said business came first, and like a fool, I had believed him.

After Liam left, Margaret hummed while clearing the table.

Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, bathing her in a soft glow.

She was truly stunning—tender skin, delicate features, and that dainty grace I could never pull off.

No wonder Liam had been obsessed with her all these years.

I hovered by the dining table, watching as she carelessly placed my fine coffee cup—the precious birthday gift Liam had given me for my twenty-fifth—into the dishwasher.

The "Chloe" inscribed on the cup glimmered in the sunlight.

Margaret seemed oblivious to it. Or maybe she just didn't care.

"That's mine," I hissed into the empty air, my voice coming out like a cat with its throat seized.

Margaret stiffened, her hands still. She scanned the room, frowned, shook her head, and went back to cleaning.

I drifted closer until I could smell her perfume—Chanel No. 5, Liam's favorite scent.

I had tried it, but he said it was too mature for someone like me.

"You're not worthy of him," I hissed in Margaret's ear. "You're just a homewrecker who stole what was mine."

Margaret shuddered violently, and the fork slipped from her fingers, clattering against the floor.

As she bent down to pick it up, clouds suddenly blocked out the sun, plunging the kitchen into shadow.

"How strange," she muttered to herself, rubbing at the goosebumps prickling along her arms.

I drifted after her into the bedroom.

She opened the wardrobe doors and began sorting clothes.

Her hand brushed against a red dress, and I jolted. It was the only remaining piece of my clothing.

Margaret pulled it out, held it up in front of the mirror, and wrinkled her nose in distaste.

"Tacky," she muttered. "Can't imagine Liam liked this cheesy thing."

A white-hot fury erupted in my chest.

That was the dress I wore on my very first date with Liam.

He had said that red made me look like a blazing fire, so mesmerizing he couldn't look away.

"Drop it!" I screamed, lunging at her.

Then—something incredible happened.

The mirror cracked, and a spiderweb of shards exploded from the center.

Terrified, Margaret stumbled back, the dress slipping from her fingers and falling to the floor.

Her reflection in the mirror shattered into countless fragments, each contorted in unnatural ways.

Margaret screamed, her voice cutting through me like glass.

She staggered out of the bedroom, nearly tripping over the carpet in her frantic escape.

I stood frozen, staring at the shattered mirror.

The cracks radiated from the center like a sinister blossom, pointing straight at my red dress.

This was the first time since my death that I'd affected the physical world.

A strange sensation surged through me—it was power.

I could feel it, faint but real.

I looked down at my translucent hand, and a sudden realization struck me—perhaps death wasn't the end, but the beginning of something new.

From the living room came Margaret's panicked voice on the phone. "Liam, something freaky happened at home. No, I'm okay, but... can you come back? Please, I'm so scared."

Half an hour later, Liam burst through the door. Margaret jumped into his arms, trembling like a leaf.

"The mirror... It shattered on its own," she sobbed. "And I felt like someone was watching me."

Liam rubbed her back to calm her down, then led her over to the shattered mirror.

Frowning, he examined the surroundings and then smiled, "Sweetheart, it's probably just the dry winter air. These old-fashioned mirrors crack all the time."

"No!" Margaret's voice hitched. "I was holding that red dress, and then the mirror just—just shattered out of nowhere."

Liam's expression flickered subtly.

He bent down, picked up my dress, and tossed it into the trash. "This should be thrown away. It probably belonged to Chloe—keeping it is just bad luck."

My heart—if I still had one—felt like an invisible fist was crushing it.

Watching my last keepsake tossed away like garbage, a fury I'd never felt consumed me.

"How dare you!" I lunged at Liam in a blind rage, my hands clawing for his throat.

But this time, nothing happened.

My hands passed through his body as if it was just a wisp of mist.

Liam was oblivious, already on the phone arranging for a mirror replacement.

*****

In the days that followed, Margaret was a nervous wreck.

She refused to stay alone in the bedroom, constantly glancing back as if someone was following her.

At night, she'd keep every light blazing.

One late night, Margaret shook the sleeping Liam awake. "I had that nightmare again, Liam."

"That dream?" Liam wrapped his arms around her sleepily.

Margaret nodded, her voice quivering with fear. "Chloe stood by the bed, covered in blood, saying, 'That's mine,' over and over again."

She clutched Liam's pajama sleeve. "Liam, I'm scared. Could it be her ghost?"

"Shh." Liam kissed her forehead. "It's your subconscious playing tricks on you, and it's normal. You're just feeling too guilty about her death, babe."

"But I don't feel guilty!" Margaret suddenly burst out. "You told her to get out of the car, not me."

The air froze between them.

Liam's expression turned glacial. "What did you just say?"

Margaret realized her slip of the tongue and hastily explained, "I-I mean, it was an accident, no one's fault."

Liam paused before softening his voice again. "Of course, sweetheart. I'll have Selena come tomorrow, all right?"

Selena Lynch was the company's in-house psychologist.

I scoffed—typical Liam, always using clinical terms and cold logic to explain anything that didn't fit his narrative.

When I was alive and anxious about Margaret's return, he'd just brush me off like this.

"You're overacting, Chloe," he'd said. "You need professional help."

The next afternoon, Selena arrived on time.

This forty-something woman wore gold-rimmed glasses and spoke in soothing tones.

She and Margaret chatted in the living room for an hour, while Liam "thoughtfully" withdrew to his home office to work.

"When did these symptoms start?" Selena asked gently while jotting down notes in her notebook.

"About a week ago?" Margaret wrung her fingers nervously. "First, it felt like someone was whispering in my ear. Then the mirror suddenly shattered. Lately, I've been having these nightmares."

Selena nodded. "I understand how distressing this must be. But Ms. Smith, stress and guilt can cause hallucinations."

"I really don't feel guilty!" Margaret insisted, her voice trembling on the verge of tears.

"Guilt can be subconscious," Selena explained with a practiced smile. "Simply knowing how Ms. Jackson died might trigger defense mechanisms."

Rage seared through my very soul.

What a perfect excuse.

It chalked up anything supernatural to "hallucinations," and that way, Liam never had to face the truth.

After their talk, Selena prescribed Margaret some calming medication and advised her to get out more instead of staying at home.

After seeing Selena out, Liam put his arm around Margaret and asked, "How did it go?"

Margaret managed a weak smile. "Better, I think. Selena says it's PTSD, and it'll fade with time."

"Of course it will," Liam murmured against her hair, his lips brushing her crown. "The company's anniversary gala is next week. Are you ready?"

Margaret's eyes lit up. "Yeah! I found the perfect gown."

"But..." She hesitated. "Isn't it too soon for me to attend as your plus-one? After all, Chloe has only been gone for a month."

"Life goes on, Margie," Liam said, his expression utterly unmoved. "Chloe would understand."

I floated above them, a sudden wave of dizziness washing over me.

The anniversary gala? His plus-one? Just one month after my death?

Didn't Liam even pretend?

That night, after they'd both fallen asleep, I decided to run a little experiment.

I focused all my energy on the water glass atop the nightstand.

I pictured it sliding and crashing to the floor in pieces, just like I did with the mirror.

The glass didn't budge an inch.

I switched my target to Liam's phone.

The screen suddenly flickered, then went dark.

That tiny change lit a flame of hope in me.

Then I turned to the drapes. After countless failed attempts, they finally stirred slightly, like they'd been brushed by a breeze.

As the first silver of morning light slipped through the curtains, I finally figured out some rules governing my powers.

My "powers" spiked when emotions ran high, especially in moments of rage or sorrow.

I could only affect objects that held deep emotional significance to me when I was alive.

Margaret could sense my presence far more easily than Liam.

The last but most important thing I discovered was that I could slip into people's dreams.

That ignited a plan in my vengeful soul.

If Margaret's "guilt" made her see things, I'd give her real reason to squirm.

That night, I floated silently by the bedside, my gaze fixed on Margaret's sleeping form.

With Liam away on a business trip, Margaret lay alone in the oversized bed, curled up like a frightened child.

I took a deep breath—an old habit from when I still had lungs—then leaned down over her sleeping form and slipped into her dream.

It was a garden veiled in mist.

Margaret, in a white dress, was gathering roses.

Golden sunlight bathed the garden, birds chirping among fragrant blossoms—a deceptively peaceful scene.

I glanced down—I was still in my death form, pale and bloodstained, with my clothes in tatters.

It was too harsh. She'd wake up.

I closed my eyes and envisioned my living self—the crimson dress, stiletto heels, and flawless makeup.

When I opened my eyes again, the mirror reflected the radiant version of me in all my former glory.

I smiled, making my way toward Margaret.

"What a lovely rose," I said, gesturing toward the flower in her hand.

Margaret looked up, startled. "Who are you?"

"Chloe Jackson." I kept smiling and extended my hand. "Liam's fiancée."

Margaret's face froze. "But you're already..."

"Dead?" I chuckled. "Yeah, crushed by a truck. Funny how Liam got your call right then, huh?"

Margaret's face drained of all color. "I-I didn't know it would end up like this."

"Of course not." I leaned in, my voice as venomous as a serpent's tongue. "Just like you didn't know Liam and I had already set our wedding date... for next month."

That part was true. Liam had proposed to me just one week before my death—he'd even taken me to our potential wedding venues.

Looking back, that was all just part of his scheme to earn my trust, to make me willingly sign over every last share of the company to him.

The rose slipped from Margaret's grasp. "No way. He told me you two were just business partners."

"He's said a lot of things," I murmured, tracing my fingers down her icy cheek. "That he'd never leave me; that he'd take the company public; that he loved me."

Margaret began trembling. "What do you want?"

"Watch your back, Margaret," I whispered in her ear. "You know how I died, but do you know why?"

Just then, the dreamscape convulsed violently.

Margaret's subconscious started repelling me, and the entire garden contorted.

I seized those final moments and let my glamorous facade shatter, revealing the bloodied wreck I'd become.

"Because he chose to let me die!" I shrieked, blood gushing from my forehead. "And you're just as guilty."

Margaret's scream tore through the dream, and I was flung out by her raw terror.

Back in the bedroom, I watched as she thrashed violently on the bed, then suddenly shot upright, drenched in cold sweat.

"No... no..." she sobbed, switching on every light. Then she huddled against the headboard, trembling until dawn's light crept in.

I floated in the corner, savoring her terror with satisfaction.

Your nightmares had only just begun, dear Margaret.

Brace yourself.