Clarissa Hester POV:
The memory of the crash, the blood, the bone, it all came rushing back. But it was fleeting, a distant echo compared to the constant thrum of betrayal. My ghost, a silent observer, was dragged along in Deacon's wake, a torment far worse than any physical pain.
It hadn't always been like this. Not this blatant. But the cracks had shown, hadn't they? I just hadn't wanted to see them.
I remembered last year, when Deacon had promised a weekend getaway, just the two of us, to celebrate our anniversary. We had booked that little cottage by the lake, no cell service, just quiet.
Two days before, Kimberlee had a "panic attack" about a spider in her apartment. Deacon canceled. He said he had to be there for her, that her phobias were crippling. I hadn't argued. I just packed away the new lingerie and pretended I understood.
Then there was the time I'd planned a surprise birthday dinner for him. I'd cooked his favorite meal, invited his closest friends. Kimberlee had called, distraught, claiming a "strange car" was parked outside her building. He left the dinner, abandoning his own celebration, to go "protect" her. He returned hours later, smelling faintly of cheap takeout and Kimberlee's sickly sweet perfume, and mumbled a half-hearted apology about her fragile nerves.
I had tried to talk to him once. "Deacon," I remembered saying, my voice soft, "Kimberlee's phobias seem to flare up an awful lot when we have plans. Don't you think it's a little... convenient?"
His eyes, usually warm when they looked at me, had turned cold, a familiar storm brewing behind them. "Clarissa," he'd said, his voice flat, "you're a surgeon. You deal with facts. Kimberlee is a victim of trauma. Her fears are real. You, a medical professional, should understand that." His hand had shot out, gripping my arm, a little too tight. "Don't you ever question her again. Do you understand me?" The bruising had faded in a few days, but the sting of his accusation, the implication that I was callous, had stayed.
He had threatened to break off the engagement then, his words like daggers. "If you can't accept my family, Clarissa, then maybe this isn't going to work. Maybe you're not the woman I thought you were." I had crumbled, promising to be more understanding, to be better. I hated myself for it, even then.
So, when the wedding date was set, I decided to surprise him. I'd found the perfect antique watch he'd always admired, planned a romantic dinner at his favorite restaurant to give it to him. I was on my way there, excited, hopeful that this time, this time, nothing would go wrong. This time, our love would triumph.
That was the night Kimberlee ran me off the bridge.
My ghost hovered, the raw pain of betrayal now mixing with the crushing weight of regret. How could I have been so blind? So desperate for his love that I ignored every warning sign?
My vision blurred, not with tears, for ghosts don't cry, but with the sheer force of my unraveling memories. I was ripped away from the ambulance, pulled by an unseen force, drawn back to Deacon. Our bond, severed in life, was a wretched tether in death.
He was in a sterile, opulent hospital room. The hospital. Our hospital. The one his family owned. Kimberlee lay on a luxury bed, draped in a silk gown, a soft blanket pulled up to her chin. A resident, a junior doctor I'd mentored, stood nervously by the door.
"Ms. Potts is stable, Dr. Grant," the resident reported, his voice hushed. "No physical injuries. We've administered a mild sedative for the anxiety."
Kimberlee whimpered, her eyes fluttering open. "Deacon? Oh, Deacon... it was so awful. The storm... and Clarissa... she was so angry." She reached for his hand, her fingers trembling. "I thought she was going to kill me."
Deacon took her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles. His eyes met mine, or rather, the space where I floated. He couldn't see me. The realization was both a relief and a fresh wound. He didn't have to face the ghost of his neglect.
His phone buzzed. It was mine, or rather, the hospital pager that still listed my contact. He looked down at it, then at Kimberlee, then back at the phone.
Kimberlee stiffened. "Is that... her?" Her voice was a terrified whisper. "Is she still trying to hurt me?"
"No, baby, no," Deacon soothed, his voice firm. He silenced the pager. "She won't. I won't let her."
"She called me a monster," Kimberlee sobbed, pulling his hand to her cheek. "She said I was trying to steal you. That I was a bad person." Her eyes, wide and innocent, filled with fresh tears. "Am I a bad person, Deacon? Am I?"
Deacon pulled her closer, his lips pressed to her forehead. "Never. You are the kindest, gentlest woman I know. She's jealous, Kimberlee. She's always been jealous of our bond. Don't listen to her. I'll protect you from her. Always."
His words were a physical blow. Jealous? Of their bond? The bond forged in guilt and manipulation? My anger, cold and sharp, flared. He truly believed her lies.
"You're mine, Deacon," Kimberlee whispered, her voice possessive, almost triumphant. "Just mine."
He held her tighter. "Yes, Kimberlee. I'm yours."
I watched, horrified, as he nodded, affirming her distorted reality. He was so lost in his own twisted sense of responsibility, so blind to the venomous snake he cradled. My ghost reeled. He was truly gone.
Suddenly, I was in his office, the opulent space a stark contrast to the sterile hospital room. He sat at his large mahogany desk, his face grim. My pager had been buzzing nonstop. He ignored it, then finally turned it off, tossing it into a drawer.
He tried calling my personal cell, then my work extension. No answer. Of course not. I was dead.
His assistant buzzed through. "Dr. Grant, Dr. Lee needs you in OR 3. Critical head trauma from the bridge accident earlier. He's asking for your expertise, says the patient is deteriorating rapidly."
Deacon paused, his hand hovering over his phone. "What's the weather like, Brenda?"
"Clear skies, Dr. Grant. The storm passed about an hour ago."
"Good." He nodded, then leaned back in his chair. "Tell Dr. Lee I'm unavailable. He'll have to manage. Refer him to Dr. Anya Sharma. She's capable."
My ghost screamed. The bridge accident. The patient. That was me. He was refusing to operate on me. The woman he was supposed to marry in a week.
"But Dr. Grant," Brenda's voice was hesitant, "Dr. Lee specifically requested you. He said the patient's prognosis is dire without immediate neurosurgical intervention, and given her profession-"
"I said I'm unavailable, Brenda," Deacon cut her off, his voice flat. "Cancel all my appointments for the next two days. I'll be with Ms. Potts."
He cancelled me. He cancelled my life. He cancelled the surgery that might have saved me. He cancelled everything, for her.
