"Elaine, since you don't know what's good for you, then stay in here and think about what you've done!"
He called his assistant over, his expression ice-cold.
"Get some people up here. Weld this door shut. Even if she's on her knees begging, don't let her out."
"I want to see just how stubborn she really is, and how long she can hold out."
He scooped Agatha into his arms and walked out of the room without looking back.
I hovered in midair, unable to stop the bitter laugh that escaped me.
Blake, I won't be begging you to let me out.
After all, in this weather, it wouldn't take long for my body to rot.
Blake carried Agatha straight home.
The entire drive, he was restless, kept glancing at his phone without thinking.
Every time before, after I'd been forced to give blood, I would call him the moment I regained consciousness. I'd tell him how much it hurt. I'd beg him to investigate what really happened all those years ago.
But this time, there was nothing. An eerie silence.
No missed calls. Not even a single text.
Agatha watched his distracted state, jealousy plain on her face.
"Blake, is Elaine still mad at you?"
"What if she really won't talk to you? Maybe I should go apologize to her and explain things?"
Blake's face twisted with irritation. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel.
"Apologize to her? She doesn't deserve it."
"Don't worry about her. Every time after the drug trials and blood draws, she puts on this pathetic half-dead act. I'm sick of it."
"You're leaving the country in three days. If she doesn't bother us, even better. That way I can focus on spending time with you."
He snatched up his phone like a man possessed, jaw clenched, and blocked every single one of my contact methods.
For the next few days, he stayed glued to Agatha's side. He didn't think of me once.
It wasn't until the third night that he finally, almost as an afterthought, picked up his phone and pulled up my number.
Before he could even dial, a call came in from Nathan.
"Mr. Gilbert, you need to come to the hospital right away. Something might have happened to your wife."
"We've been standing guard outside the door for three days like you ordered. There hasn't been a single sound from inside the room, and the smell keeps getting worse."
"It's like... something's rotting in there. Sir, is it possible she's already dead?"
Blake frowned, about to respond, when Agatha came stumbling toward him.
Her face was white with panic, phone clutched in her trembling hand, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.
"Blake, the cemetery manager just called me. Someone smashed my parents' headstone!"
"Was it Elaine? If she hates me, I'll go die, just please, can you ask her not to do this to my mom and dad?"
Blake froze for a split second. Then his eyes turned vicious.
"That bitch Elaine actually did something like this. She's truly lost her mind."
He drove his fist into the wall, then whipped around and snarled into his phone.
"Get people over there right now. Dig up that bitch's mother's ashes."
"She had the nerve to destroy Agatha's parents' headstone? I won't let her off easy this time."
"You tell her, if she won't get on her knees and apologize, I'll scatter her mother's ashes to the wind."
I screamed and lunged at him, trying to grab his collar, to tell him it wasn't me.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't touch him at all.
I collapsed to the ground in despair, tears streaming down my face.
By the time Blake arrived at the hospital with Agatha, Nathan was already standing outside the room, holding the urn.
Blake took it from him and kicked the door open.
The next instant, the stench hit him so hard he nearly doubled over retching.
Blake covered his nose and screamed at my body on the bed.
"Elaine, how long are you going to keep playing dead?"
"I lock you up for a few days and you turn the whole room into a cesspool!"
"You have three seconds to get up, get on your knees, and beg Agatha for forgiveness!"
"Three. Two. One!"
The countdown ended. The room stayed silent.
Blake's fury swelled. Without a moment's hesitation, he raised the urn of ashes and hurled it against the floor.
It shattered into pieces.
I dropped to my knees, scrambling to gather what was left, but it was useless. My hands passed through everything.
A gust of wind swept through, and my mother's ashes scattered completely.
When I still didn't move—when my body still didn't move—Blake lost the last shred of his patience.
He let out a cold laugh, strode to the bed, and grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking hard.
A rotting, bloated corpse tumbled off the mattress and rolled to his feet.
Blake froze.
Then a scream tore out of him—raw, guttural, loud enough to echo through every corridor of the hospital.
