When the man my wife had always loved pushed me off the second-floor balcony of this house, she was still on the phone with him—teasing him, calling him “baby.”
I thought I was going to die.
But death didn’t come.
Instead, I ended up half-paralyzed.
That wasn’t enough for him.
He hired a couple of thugs to finish the job—chop me up and bury the pieces out back, like yesterday’s trash.
Three years after my death, Eric—my wife’s precious Eric—ended up with kidney failure.
That’s when my wife finally remembered me.
She stormed into the old villa with a bunch of bodyguards, thinking she could drag me back to the land of the living. Of course, she had no idea I was already long gone.
They turned the whole place upside down. When they couldn’t find me, she assumed I was hiding.
“Come out!” she shouted. “If you agree to give your kidney to Eric, I’ll drop your punishment and bring you home.”
It wasn’t until she had them dig up the backyard that she finally found my bones.
——
Nadia arrived at the secluded private estate with her usual entourage of guards. Her brows were pulled so tight, it looked like they might never relax again.
The place was technically managed by her people, but this particular house—this villa in the woods—was completely off-limits unless she gave the word.
She’d turned it into my personal prison. I was the husband who’d “screwed up.”
And I’d been dead for three years.
For just as long, no one had stepped foot inside.
The stone path leading to the front door was swallowed by knee-high weeds. The once-pristine garden was now nothing but a wild mess of thorny vines and overgrown grass.
Nadia scrunched her nose in disgust as her stilettos crunched along the gravel. “This place is a dump. He couldn’t even bother to hire someone to clean it up? Lazy bastard.”
She waved a hand like she was shooing away a bad smell. “Eric would never let things fall apart like this. Total night and day.”
She pulled a lace-trimmed handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to her nose. God knows if she was actually smelling something or just too good for the air here.
“Patrick!” she shouted toward the house. “You’ve gotten too comfortable playing hermit, huh? Come out here already!”
She stood there like some highborn queen descending from her throne, acting like just being here was some kind of mercy.
But no one answered.
She called out again. Nothing.
By the third time, she was done playing nice.
With a flick of her wrist, she said flatly, “Break the door down.”
One of the guards gave a sharp nod and within seconds, there was a loud crash. The door caved in under the force of several boots. They stormed in in unison. But five minutes later, they returned—empty-handed and confused.
“He’s not inside, Ma’am,” one of them said, eyes flicking down nervously.
Nadia’s brows knit tighter, like storm clouds about to burst. She didn’t buy it for a second.
She marched inside herself, checked every room, every closet, every corner.
Nothing.
Frustrated, she pulled out her phone and hesitated. It had been so long since she last called me, she couldn’t even remember my number.
She stood there, frowning, scrolling. Then she spotted it—my number, saved under “Deadweight.”
She hit call.
From where I floated nearby—watching—I couldn’t help but let out a dry, bitter laugh. She hated me so much she keep my number under that name.
It all started three years ago. Back when Eric Collins—the man she loved—fell down the stairs. Nadia didn’t even hesitate. She accused me on the spot, said I’d pushed him on purpose.
Called me heartless. As punishment, she banished me to a remote villa hidden deep in the mountains. That punishment lasted three years. And in all that time, Nadia never once remembered I even existed.
The call didn’t even ring. It cut off the moment she pressed dial. Of course it did. What had she expected, calling a number that belonged to someone who’d been dead for years?
“You’ve got some nerve, Patrick,” she muttered under her breath. “Think I won’t find you? Fine. Keep hiding. Let’s see how long you can keep it up.”
A hoarse laugh echoed from the corner of the room.
Nadia turned sharply.
There, half-buried in weeds by the far wall, slumped a man dressed in rags. His clothes were filthy and torn and a half-empty bottle dangled loosely from his hand. His eyes were glassy and unfocused—completely wasted.
“Stop yelling! The guy’s dead,” the drunk rasped.
Then he laughed again, a sound so bitter and broken it was hard to tell if he was laughing or crying.
“Where the hell did this drunk come from?” Nadia growled, taking a step back like he might be contagious.
Before she could say more, one of her bodyguards stepped forward without needing a command and kicked the drunk square in the chest, knocking him onto his back.
