The day I was kidnapped, my husband, Creighton Flynn, was off celebrating his new flame's birthday.

When the kidnappers called to demand ransom, threatening to kill me if he refused, he scoffed, "That woman isn't worth a dime. If you kill her, you'd be doing me a favor—one less nuisance to deal with."

Three days later, I lay on the autopsy table.

Creighton, the best forensic pathologist in the city, didn't realize that the mangled body he was examining belonged to his wife—the person he despised most.

***

I lay naked on the cold steel table.

Strictly speaking, it wasn't me lying there—just chunks of my flesh, scattered and crudely pieced together into my shape.

Creighton wore a surgical mask, brow furrowed in a scowl.

He was clearly upset, having been called back to work overtime from his celebration of Monique Harris's birthday.

A pang of guilt crept through me. I knew I'd caused him trouble again.

Creighton, wearing his rubber gloves, began carefully assembling my remains piece by piece.

But there were too many pieces. Eventually, his patience began to fray.

"The killer is truly awful!" he muttered. "Cutting her into countless pieces—what kind of monster goes to that much trouble?"

He leaned in closer, inspecting the wounds while dictating to his assistant.

"The bone structure suggested the victim was under thirty.

"She endured at least ten hours of excruciating torture before death—and it was done while she was fully conscious."

Creighton's tone was calm, detached, and purely professional.

And everything he said was true.

Those ten hours had felt endless.

Not just because of the pain, but because of the hope.

I kept believing that any moment, the door would burst open, and Creighton would come for me.

I was terrified he'd find me too late—that he'd see only a corpse.

So I fought tooth and nail, refusing to let go, defying death with every labored breath.

But in the end, I still didn't make it.

When Creighton began examining the lower half of my body, his expression suddenly changed.

My heart tightened. He was about to find my secret.

His voice remained steady and professional, betraying no emotion.

"The victim was sexually assaulted before death. There's biological residue inside her. Send the semen sample to the lab for DNA analysis."

His assistant, a young woman, froze for a moment.

"Ten hours of assault?" she whispered. "She must've been so terrified..."

"Yeah," Creighton said grimly, anger flickering in his eyes. "Those damn monsters! How can anyone be this cruel!"

Watching his furious expression, I felt a pang of shame instead of comfort.

I wondered if he'd say the same if he knew it was me.

If he realized it was his own wife, would he feel humiliated instead?

Would he see me as shameless—after ten hours of sexual assault, and I still somehow held out and resisted the urge to end my life?

I wanted to live, and it was not just for Creighton. I knew that if he kept probing, he'd uncover the reason why I'd held on so fiercely.

When he reached my abdomen, I felt a strange surge—something like my heart pounding.

I yearned to know: would this revelation bring him joy or plunge him into sorrow?

Suddenly, his phone rang. It was Monique.

She whined about why he wasn't done yet and why he wasn't hurrying back to her.

The assistant chuckled, teasing, "What's wrong? Mrs. Flynn checking up on you?"

"As if it could be her. I'd rather she never contacted me again—makes my skin crawl," Creighton said.

The young assistant froze, realizing her blunder. "Dr. Flynn, you and your wife... I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

Creighton's tone turned sharper, filled with contempt. "Don't worry, you couldn't have known. Every day, I pray that the worthless woman vanishes from my life for good. Honestly, I'd be thrilled if the one lying here was her."

A bitter smile crept across my lips. He was right. The woman on his table was me.

His gloved fingers pressed against my abdomen—and then, he found my secret.

Within my belly was my unborn child, only just beginning to take human shape.

After seven years of marriage, I had finally conceived Creighton's child.

I was going to tell him on his birthday.

He was my only family in this world, my only love.

I'd always believed he would never betray me.

I told myself he must have been with Monique because I couldn't give him a child. There couldn't be any other reason.

Carefully, Creighton removed the tiny, fragile shape from my womb and handed it to his assistant. "Send this to the lab, too."

Soon, he would know he had been a father. But it wouldn't be me delivering the news.

Gazing at my unborn child, a sharp sorrow pierced me, but it faded into acceptance. It didn't matter anymore. Creighton would have more children. I'd heard Monique was pregnant too. Her baby should be about the same age as mine would've been.

The phone rang again, breaking the silence. Creighton's jaw tensed. He hated being interrupted during work.

This time, it was my best friend, Nevaeh Moran.

I hadn't shown up for work in days and hadn't reached out to her either.

So, she must've been frantic.

"Ernestine? Yes, she's my wife," Creighton said impatiently. "What does her skipping work have to do with me? She's an adult, not a missing child."

Creighton sounded exasperated, but his upbringing kept him from slamming down the receiver. "Pregnant? That's impossible. She's... fine, whatever. I'll swing by if I get a chance..."

I sighed inwardly. I hadn't meant to cause him any more trouble.

But honestly, my coworkers must've called him out of desperation—after all, he was the only family I had left.

Watching Creighton toil through the night filled me with remorse.

Sadly, even as the top forensic expert, he couldn't fully reconstruct my body in one go.

To be fair, it wasn't his fault.

The killer had no experience dismembering, so the cuts were sloppy and erratic. Plus, with the recent rains, many fragments were lost forever.

Worse, they'd severed my head from my torso.

So, even for Creighton, recognizing me at first glance was impossible.

By morning, Monique couldn't wait any longer. She showed up at the police station looking for him.

It was the first time I'd ever seen her in person.

However, the moment I saw her face, I felt a strange jolt of familiarity, as if I'd seen her somewhere before.

Creighton was just leaving the lab when she arrived.

No one in the precinct greeted her, but no one stopped her either.

Everyone seemed to share the same silent understanding—to look away.

"Creighton, you didn't come home all night. I made you some chicken soup."

Monique was so thoughtful, far more than I'd ever been.

I'd tried my hand at soups once, but my cooking was abysmal, and Creighton had turned up his nose.

"What are you doing here?" Creighton's voice softened like silk.

It had been ages since I'd heard that tender timbre from him.

In the early days of our romance, he'd spoken to me with the same velvet warmth.

But over time, his affection chilled to frost.

The soup smelled wonderful. I almost wished I could taste it.

If I were a man, I'd probably fall harder for Monique's bold, generous spirit, too.

"Don't you realize you're pregnant? You should be resting in bed," Creighton cooed, his words dripping with indulgence.

A sour jealousy churned in my gut.

Monique blushed with a shy smile. "You've been working all night. I just wanted to do something nice for you."

They looked so perfectly matched, like pieces of a puzzle clicking into place.

For the first time, I thought maybe my death wasn't a tragedy at all.

Maybe I was the obstacle between them.

Maybe I should've disappeared long ago.

I felt foolish for ever believing Creighton to be with Monique out of some hidden reason.

Now, it struck me: with me gone, Monique could keep him company. At least he wouldn't be alone.

The assistant emerged from the lab with evidence collected from my body.

In a clumsy moment, she knocked over the mug of soup Monique had ladled for Creighton.

The young woman flushed with apologies. Though she'd scalded herself, her first concern was whether Monique was burned.

And in that split second, I caught the flash of rage on Monique's face.

I saw her eyes narrow, blazing with fury.

A chill ran through me, and my mind exploded in a flash of realization.

Monique's expression—I'd seen it before.

It all came flooding back.

In my final moments, as consciousness faded into haze, I'd caught that very glare. I'd never forget her face.

Back in that pitch-black room, I'd been tied to a chair, stripped, and brutalized.

Then, the door had burst open, a shaft of light piercing the darkness.

A woman stood there, her silhouette framed against the glare.

The ringleader scurried over, groveling.

"Boss, we... we hadn't touched a woman in days. We couldn't help ourselves..."

Even shrouded head to toe, I recognized her—it was Monique.

"No worries, you did well," she replied coolly. "Now that she's been defiled, even if she lives, she'll never have the face to bother Creighton again."

"So, boss, what's next?" the leader pressed.

"Make her vanish. Forever," Monique commanded.

That was the last scene etched in my mind before everything went black.

So, the monster who ended me was right by Creighton's side!

For a fleeting moment, I worried for him.

But then I laughed at myself.

As long as her crime stayed buried, Monique had no reason to harm him.

And if my disappearance meant Creighton could live out his days in peace and joy, it felt like a worthy sacrifice.

In that instant, I found myself wishing they'd never find my head.

I hoped the DNA results would vanish into thin air.

I even prayed the killer's identity would remain forever shrouded.

That way, I'd simply be someone who evaporated without a trace.

Monique left, and Creighton stared at the soup before setting the mug aside.

He sat in silence, lost in thought.

"Where'd this bracelet come from?"

Neal Ballard, the evidence custodian, was sorting through my belongings when Creighton spotted my bracelet.

Creighton fished it out from the jumbled mess in the cardboard box.

The bracelet was ravaged by concentrated sulfuric acid, twisted beyond recognition.

"Is this the victim's?" Creighton demanded.

Neal jumped, startled. After all, Creighton was usually the picture of refined composure, never this riled up.

"Yeah, Dr. Flynn. Why? Have you seen it before? Any leads?" Neal inquired.

But when Creighton noticed a dab of glue on one link, he set it down.

He forced a smile. "Oh, never mind. Must've been a trick of the light."

So, he didn't recognize it as mine.

He knew I was allergic to glue, but he had no idea that, allergy or not, I'd never once taken it off.

This bracelet was his gift from when we first met.

Back then, he'd spent three months' salary to buy it—three months living off frozen pizzas just so he could see me smile.

The memory made the corners of my lips lift.

But hey, nearly a decade had passed since he gave it to me—forgetting was understandable.

Creighton glanced casually at the other items in the evidence box.

These were the last remnants of my existence in this world.

Among them was a partially dissolved lab report—my pregnancy test.

The name section had corroded away.

It was for that tiny life inside me that I'd fought so desperately to survive.

This slip of paper was proof of the new beginning in my womb.

When Creighton's eyes landed on it, a flicker of pity softened his brow.

But I knew if he realized it was mine, that compassion would evaporate.

He never touched anything that belonged to me—not even me.

When we first got married, he was so kind, so indulgent.

But in the third year of our marriage, everything shifted.

He began to disdain me, refusing any intimacy.

And that was around the time Monique entered the picture.

At first, I told myself it was just a fling, that he'd tire of the novelty and return to me.

But once Monique appeared, his heart anchored firmly to her.

Even his mother, Aubria Flynn, favored her.

When I couldn't conceive, she'd constantly badger Creighton to divorce me and marry Monique instead.

Creighton had broached the subject with me. He claimed he still loved me, that Monique was merely a means to an heir.

He claimed he had some unspoken burden.

Yet behind my back, he vowed to Monique that he'd leave me for good.

Creighton wasn't a total scoundrel, but I could never sort his truths from his lies.

Soon, the DNA results arrived, and the assistant snatched up the report.

The victim's name, printed at the top in crisp black letters, read, "Rebecca Coffey."

I froze, unable to understand the situation. This body was unmistakably mine!

Staring at the corpse, a wave of disorientation washed over me.

I knew it was me—how could I not recognize my own remains?

Yet the autopsy report stated in stark black and white that this body belonged to someone named Rebecca.

Creighton's face went slack when he saw the name.

His brows knitted tightly, as if unraveling a knot in his mind.

Reggie Harmon, the lead detective, clapped a hand on Creighton's shoulder.

They exchanged a wordless glance, but volumes passed between them.

Their eyes met, swirling with emotions I couldn't decipher.

"Dr. Flynn, you've been pulling all-nighters—head home and rest. I'll call if anything comes up," Reggie said.

His tone blended concern with caution, as if fearing Creighton might snap under the strain.

I'd never heard Creighton mention Reggie.

I'd never heard Creighton mention a friend named Reggie before.

Then again, why would I know? I'd long been shut out of his world.

He spent more time with Monique than with me, so it wasn't surprising I didn't know his friends.

I followed him home.

Not our home. He went back to the house he shared with Monique.

Everything inside looked familiar. The decor, the furniture, even the way the books were arranged on the shelves—it was all just like the home I once shared with him.

Monique was lounging on the couch, watching TV. She wore shorts and a simple T-shirt that showed off her perfect figure. A half-eaten bag of chips rested in her hand.

Seeing those chips, a wry smile crossed my face.

It had been ages since I'd indulged in such treats.

I'd starved myself to stay slim, terrified of Creighton's disdain if I gained an ounce.

He'd once griped about obese cadavers—their greasy fat layers testing a pathologist's patience.

And the stench of rotting blubber? "Nauseating," he'd said.

His words haunted me.

I never let up, always skipping meals for days on end to shed weight.

In the end, he complained I was too gaunt, rejecting me all the same.

Monique lit up at Creighton's return.

She leaped from the sofa, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"My darling hubby, you're finally back! Any longer, and I'd forget what you look like," she teased, planting a playful peck on his cheek.

I averted my gaze in silence.

If I were him, I'd prefer Monique's spirit too.

She radiated passion and energy, a whirlwind of life.

Me? I was a perpetual shadow, cloaked in gloom.

Compared to Creighton and me, they were the epitome of a loving couple.

Creighton stroked her hair with tender affection.

"You've slimmed down while I was gone—clearly not taking care of yourself," he murmured.

"Oh, please! I'm a big girl; I won't starve. I lost weight pining for you," Monique shot back with a mischievous grin.

She nipped teasingly at his lower lip.

"Mmm, you look delicious, love. Mind if I devour you?" she purred.

"Is that so, baby? Cannibalism's against the law, you know," Creighton chuckled, the air thick with sugary sweetness.

Monique feigned a fierce bite.

Instead of pulling away, Creighton drew her closer, his hands gripping her waist possessively.

His lips met hers in a soft brush, then deepened with hunger.

Just as he leaned in for a passionate plunge, Monique dodged with a giggle.

"Naughty boy, trying to steal more than a kiss? Not a chance!" she taunted, her eyes sparkling with flirtatious fire.

Scenes like this never unfolded in our home.

As a ghost on the sidelines, I couldn't deny their perfect chemistry.

Whenever Creighton came back to our place, he'd either crash straight into bed or bury himself in work.

I'd become invisible, an unwelcome presence.

If I dared speak, his icy stare would silence me mid-sentence.

He loathed interruptions during his focus.

So, in our house, I morphed into a mute phantom.

Now, seeing him smile at someone else, I felt an odd sort of peace. Maybe it was better this way.

As long as the truth stayed hidden, they could bask in eternal bliss.

And I, the superfluous soul in this world, could drift away unburdened.

Just then, in the midst of their heated intimacy, Nevaeh's call shattered the moment.

Monique snatched the phone before Creighton could reach it.

"Hey, Creighton's tied up right now—no time to chat," she said, her voice dripping with smugness.

"Monique, hand the phone to Creighton. I need to talk to him," Nevaeh shot back from the other end.

"What's the big deal? Spill it to me—I'm his favorite, after all," Monique taunted, twisting the knife on purpose.

Creighton watched her with a helpless grin, his eyes overflowing with indulgence.

He didn't step in to stop her antics.

"Cut the crap and give him the phone!" Nevaeh's tone sharpened with urgency.

Monique scowled, muttered something under her breath, and reluctantly handed over the phone.

I'd naively assumed Nevaeh was clueless about Monique.

But now, it dawned on me—she'd probably been pretending ignorance around me, just to shield my fragile ego.

"What's up?" Creighton asked, clearly annoyed by the interruption but polite enough to take the call.

"Do you even care that your wife is missing?!" Nevaeh's voice trembled with rage.

"How can you just sit there with her while Ernestine is out there—God knows where—after everything she's done for you?!"

"I should've convinced her to leave you years ago. I misjudged you, Creighton. I thought you had a heart."

Nevaeh's accusations deepened the furrows in Creighton's brow.

"How the hell am I supposed to know where that woman is?" he barked. "Last time she stormed off, she was gone for a month. Maybe she's shacked up with some guy."

Monique leaned lazily against his chest, listening, her face lit with quiet triumph.

"She spends my money but can't even play the housewife right—always vanishing. Does she think that'll drag me back? Dream on. She can rot out there for all I care!" Creighton shouted.

His voice hit me like a blade. I knew he resented me, but hearing him say it so cruelly still shattered something inside.

Even without a heart, I could feel the ache of it—deep, raw, and suffocating.

Seizing the moment, Monique chimed in. "Creighton, don't waste your breath on her. I saw Ernestine the other day, wrapped around some guy on the street. Maybe she's run off with him. This time, you can't go soft—you have to divorce her."

Nevaeh's voice exploded from the phone, filled with rage and disbelief.

Creighton's face darkened. He hung up.

As Monique busied herself in the kitchen, Creighton slipped onto the balcony.

He stared at his phone for ages before finally dialing my number.

No answer, just endless ringing.

He tried again and again, but silence greeted him each time.

"Where the hell is she?" he spat, frustration boiling over.

To my astonishment, a flicker of concern shadowed his eyes.

But no, that had to be an illusion.

After all, why would Creighton ever worry about me?

He lit a cigarette.

As the sunset's glow faded into twilight, his smoke burned down to the filter.

After a beat of hesitation, he called a colleague from the forensics lab.

"Miguel, I need a favor. Can you track Ernestine's location for me?"

The name rang a bell. Miguel Wilde was Creighton's junior at the university.

They'd had a falling out years ago and hadn't spoken since.

I never thought he'd swallow his pride and reach out to Miguel for my sake.

"Creighton? The almighty forensic whiz can't handle something himself? Thought you had the world in your pocket, but here you are, begging a nobody like me," Miguel replied, his words laced with biting sarcasm.

Creighton's face hardened, anger flashing, but he softened his voice. "Yeah, I'm out of options. Please, help me pinpoint Ernestine's last known spot. I appreciate it."

"You two fighting this bad? Creighton, remember your promise? You swore you'd treat Ernestine right. Now you don't even know where she is? You are such a lousy husband!" Miguel grilled him.

Creighton met the barrage with stony silence.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally murmured, "Miguel, I'm begging you—help me find where Ernestine was last seen."

There was a long pause, then a heavy sigh from the other end.

"Fine, but you better start treating Ernestine like she deserves from here on out. If you pull this crap again... Creighton, I won't let it slide," Miguel warned, his threat hanging like a guillotine.

Creighton opened his mouth to respond, but words failed him—anything would ring hollow.

With Monique calling him from inside, he ended the call.

He took one last deep drag, stubbed out the butt, and absentmindedly jammed it into a flowerpot.

Back in the day, that move would've set me off like a firecracker.

I would've yelled at him for ruining the plants, for being thoughtless.

But Monique just picked it up, tossed it in the trash, and said nothing.

For the first time, I saw the weight Creighton carried—the pressure I'd never noticed.

Instead of understanding, I'd nitpick.

Instead of supporting him, I'd pushed him away with my endless demands.

Those trivial quirks became weapons in my hands, pushing him further away.

I hadn't been his partner. I'd been another weight on his shoulders.

In this raw moment, I crafted a justification for his betrayal.

Our drift apart wasn't solely his fault.

I'd been weak, taking out my insecurities on him, driving him straight into Monique's arms.

She was warmth where I was ice.

So, what right did I have to condemn a man I'd cornered into desperation?

After dinner, Monique curled into Creighton's embrace.

I'd daydreamed about scenes like this a million times, but we rarely shared such serene intimacy.

They say men only need a few things to be happy.

If they don't get them at home, they'll find them elsewhere.

Now, it rang painfully true.

Yet, a strange relief washed over me.

Seeing Creighton genuinely happy with Monique left me with no regrets.

As the police intensified their search, nearly all of my remains were recovered.

However, they failed to locate my internal organs.

Those valuable organs had already been harvested and sold on the black market.

If not for the mismatched limbs, my death might've gone unnoticed.

Close to midnight, Creighton woke up next to Monique.

Duty called him back to the precinct for another grueling shift, piecing together the fragments that once were me.

Monique rolled over with a pouty grumble.

"Addicted to overtime again? God, can't my dear husband stay in bed for one night? I swear, I'm going to blow up that police station tomorrow."

Then she let out a playful sigh.

In the past, whenever Creighton got yanked away at midnight, I'd prep everything for him without a fuss.

I never complained, never tried to hold him back.

I didn't dare to ask for more.

I could only watch his retreating figure in silence, calculating the moment he reached the street so I could peer out the window.

I knew he'd glance back and wave goodbye.

Monique didn't wait. She just grumbled and pulled the blanket tighter.

Creighton only smiled, tucked her in gently, and slipped out into the cold night.

At the precinct, Creighton stared at a severed arm, lost in contemplation.

Ever the pro, he'd already deduced from the anatomy that these pieces hailed from two bodies.

So the initial autopsy report wasn't wrong after all.

My remains had just mingled with Rebecca's.

With the new limbs in hand, the lab had to re-examine every shard.

Sifting through that mosaic of flesh would take time.

I knew Creighton would be exhausted during this period.

It broke my spectral heart. If I'd lived, he wouldn't be chained to this nightmare.

I hated myself for making him work this hard.

If I'd just disappeared cleanly, he wouldn't have had to go through this.

I stayed by his side through every weary hour.

For the old me, this vigil was a lavish dream.

After hammering out the autopsy report in the wee hours, Creighton emerged from his office, rubbing his bleary eyes, and bumped straight into Miguel.

"Creighton, what's your game? Ernestine's phone is right there in your house, and you ask me to track her? What was the point of this little charade?"

Miguel was fuming, convinced Creighton was playing some sick trick on him.

But amid his rant, I gleaned another nugget of truth.

So, in the office's personnel records, Creighton had already changed his address to the place he shared with Monique.

I knew Creighton didn't love me. But I never thought that, in front of his colleagues, I wasn't even worth being mentioned.

It was as if the entire world knew Creighton hated me, and only I, the pathetic fool, had been clinging to a desperate self-deception.

"What did you say? Ernestine's phone is at my house? But she doesn't even know..."

Creighton trailed off, a dawning realization choking his words.

He glanced at his watch. At this hour, Monique was likely out.

With urgent speed, he raced home.

After rummaging frantically, he unearthed my phone from the depths of Monique's purse.

It was out of battery, completely dead.

Creighton clutched it tightly, sinking onto the sofa, his eyes rimmed with red.

I'd used that phone for eight long years.

He'd bought it for me before we got married.

Sure, it lagged and guzzled battery like a thirsty beast, but I'd never part with it.

There weren't many things Creighton had given me with love, so I cherished every single one.

"Ernestine, please don't let anything happen to you. Wait for me. I'm begging—hold on for me, just a little longer," he whispered, his voice a fragile plea.

I wondered what he wanted me to wait for.

And in death, I realized how little I'd truly known him.

He was a puzzle, and I'd only ever seen the tip of the iceberg.

The click of the door lock echoed—Monique was back.

Creighton quickly collected himself.

Holding up the phone, he demanded, "Where the hell did you get this?"

Monique glanced at it and frowned.

"Oh, picked it up off the street," she said casually. "I was going to tell you—I picked it up while shopping. The poor owner must be frantic, but it's dead. I couldn't track them down."

"Where exactly?" Creighton's voice dropped to a chilling frost, sending shivers down the spine.

Monique's playful demeanor vanished. She blinked up at him, all wide-eyed innocence. "Whoa, why so intense? It's just a phone, not like I swiped it or anything."

She wrapped her arms around his neck in a coquettish plea. "Come on, Dr. Flynn, you're gonna arrest me over a silly gadget?"

Creighton's gaze flickered with panic—he couldn't admit he'd enlisted Miguel to track it, nor that it belonged to me.

"This phone's from a victim. Location pinged right here in our house. So spill: where'd you find it? That spot could be the crime scene."

He spun a hasty lie. What he didn't realize was that his lie was actually true.

"What case? The dismemberment one?" Monique blurted.

Creighton froze. "How do you know about that?"

The room plunged into an arctic silence.

Monique avoided his eyes, her confidence cracking.

Realizing her slip, she backpedaled frantically. "Oh—I saw something on the news. I just guessed, that's all. Why are you taking it so seriously?"

"The dismemberment case is high-profile; we've kept it airtight from the media. How could you possibly hear about it on the news?"

Creighton grabbed her by the arm, dragging her off the couch. His voice was low and sharp.

"Where did the phone really come from?"

Monique had never witnessed this savage side of Creighton. Terror gripped her; I could almost hear her heart thundering like a trapped animal's.

She looked like a startled fawn, wide-eyed and trembling as he hauled her roughly to her feet, tears welling in her reddened rims.

"Creighton, I'm sorry—please let go, you're hurting," she whimpered, her voice a pitiful quiver.

Creighton released her arm. She rubbed it, looking small and pitiful.

"That day, Ernestine showed up at my door, demanding I leave you. We got into a screaming match, and she slapped me. The phone—she left it behind in the chaos. I was going to tell you, but I didn't want to cause trouble. I know you have a wife, a family, and I deserve it for being the other woman."

Her sobs were convincing. And why wouldn't they be? I was dead. I couldn't contradict her.

As long as my body stayed hidden, this web of lies could ensnare everyone.

To me, it was a weak lie. After all, I had never even met Monique. How could I have gone to her and asked her to leave Creighton?

Yet now, I silently hoped he'd swallow her deceit.

I didn't want him dragged into another storm because of me.

"Creighton, I can't live without you. I'd pay any price—even if it means being branded the homewrecker. Please, don't leave me."

Monique buried her face in her hands, weeping. "I know I've wronged Ernestine, but true love is a once-in-a-lifetime shot. Meeting you was my greatest fortune—how could I let another woman rip you away?"

She said what I never dared to.

I had always been quiet, afraid to burden Creighton with my love.

He was my one true love, but I never had the courage to beg him to stay like that.

I was terrified he'd find me clingy and pathetic.

Looking back, perhaps my caution had been a cage of my own making.

Creighton drew her gently into his arms, murmuring, "Silly, I promised I'd divorce her. Just give me a bit more time, okay?"

From behind him, I caught Monique's sly, triumphant smirk—like a fox savoring its cunning victory.

In that moment, I realized my death was a twisted blessing.

This way, I wasn't the discarded wife, abandoned in humiliation.

When he married Monique, no whispers would brand him a faithless cad who betrayed his first love.

A widower remarrying was acceptable. No one would question his morality.

I figured Monique would soon destroy my phone.

That way, Creighton would never discover the true depth of my affection for him.

The evidence of my pregnancy would vanish along with the phone, buried forever, never to be known.

Just as relief settled over me, a message buzzed from the forensics lab.

I'd forgotten about the tiny, unformed life they'd extracted for testing.

Predictably, the DNA confirmed: the child was Creighton's.

The implications were catastrophic.

The victim's embryonic fetus belonged to the forensic pathologist himself.

This bombshell could shatter his career.

Creighton was summoned back to the precinct.

But this time, it wasn't for an emergency shift—it was for an interrogation.

In the stark room, he wasn't treated like a common suspect.

They didn't restrain him to the chair.

From his expression, he was just as bewildered as everyone else.

"What's your relationship with Rebecca?" the officer across the table pressed.

Even though Creighton was a colleague, procedure was procedure.

"I don't know any Rebecca," Creighton replied firmly.

"Then how do you explain the fact that she was carrying your child?"

"I have no idea," Creighton said in a tight voice.

"No idea? Dr. Flynn, the evidence is staring us in the face—you can't weasel out of this."

Creighton wasn't that kind of man; this whole mess was a colossal misunderstanding. I'd never dreamed my death would drag him into such a quagmire.

The interrogating officer pressed relentlessly, hell-bent on pinning the blame squarely on him.

Creighton only repeated "I don't know," offering no defense beyond that.

The young officer took a deep breath, unsure how to press further.

All those seasoned detectives stayed out of it, unwilling to touch the case.

The interrogation went nowhere, and Creighton was locked up.

Everything had spiraled into utter chaos.

Three days in detention later, Creighton faced another round of questioning.

This time, Miguel sat across from him.

"What, the brass wants me buried, so they send my arch-nemesis to do the honors?"

Creighton managed a wry joke.

I could see the exhaustion beneath his defiance, the weight of helplessness crushing him.

In my silent heart, I whispered apologies to him.

Once again, because of me, he'd been ensnared in this turmoil.

"I know it wasn't you, but you gotta spill what you do know."

Miguel's words kindled a spark of hope in Creighton.

But after a moment, he just shook his head. "I really don't know anything."

"Creighton, could you have gotten blackout drunk and hooked up with Rebecca, and so you have no memory of it?"

To Miguel, Creighton had always been a man without integrity—after all, he'd ditched me for Monique.

But the question still stung. Creighton's face darkened. "Are you trying to throw dirt on me now? You want to push me off a cliff? That's slander, Miguel. You just want someone to blame."

He lurched forward, trying to rise from his chair, but an officer beside him shoved him back down.

There was a fire in him—a wounded, furious pride that he had to hide from the world.

Miguel signaled the cops to ease off.

"Miguel, you think I don't know you've been pining after Ernestine for years? You've got your eyes on my wife. But you can't pin this on me now. I don't know any Rebecca, and I've got no clue why she'd carry my kid!

"You're not chasing the real truth; you're forcing a confession out of me? You incompetent badges... If it weren't for your bungling, none of this..."

He nearly blurted out his secret.

But at the brink, Creighton reined himself in.

Slumping back, exhaustion etched deep, he muttered, "I'll say it again: I don't know Rebecca, and I have no idea why she'd have my child."

With those words, the flicker of hope in his eyes snuffed out.

I ached to defend him, to scream the truth.

But now, all I could do was watch—helpless and useless.

"Creighton, think hard. If it wasn't you, can you prove it?"

Miguel's plea drew a bitter laugh from Creighton. "Miguel, since when do the innocent have to prove they're clean? Doesn't that strike you as absurd?"

Miguel bowed his head, taking a long moment before saying, "Creighton... Creig... Please, rack your brain. I'm begging: any alibi for that day?"

A man could only bow to the rules of the cage he was trapped in.

No matter who you were, when the system closed in, all you could do was lower your head.

Seeing Miguel not sparring back but genuinely brainstorming an alibi, Creighton softened.

For once, Miguel wasn't his enemy. He was just another man trapped in the system, trying to help.

Creighton saw it too. The frustration in Miguel's eyes wasn't malice—it was desperation.

"That day, I was tailing Monique, but I lost her trail."

Creighton's hands dropped limp; he deemed Miguel trustworthy.

Sharing the secret beat rotting in custody.

"You were following what? But she's your... Why?"

He stopped. The question died on his lips. He couldn't make sense of it.

I was stunned too.

Creighton loved Monique so much—why would he be following her in secret?

"Creighton, tell me what happened," Miguel urged.

"Miguel, you're better off in the dark. I don't want to drag you down—the less you know, the safer you stay."

"Creighton, are you involved in something... Fine, I get it. I'll go grab Captain Harmon right now."

Watching Miguel's face light up with realization only deepened my confusion.

Even after seven years of marriage, it felt like I had never truly known Creighton.

Whatever struggle he carried, whatever secrets he kept—they'd always been locked away from me.

Soon, Reggie strode in alongside Miguel.

At Reggie's command, the room cleared out, leaving just the three of them.

Of course, they couldn't see me hovering.

Reggie settled in, his tone grave. "Miguel, Creighton—what we're about to discuss stays between the three of us."

Miguel nodded, resolve steeling his gaze.

Creighton just gave a weary, bitter smile. Trapped in the middle of it all, he had nowhere left to run.

"Creighton, your wife, Ernestine... She's dead."