Clarissa Hester POV:
Dr. Lee, a seasoned neurosurgeon and a colleague I deeply respected, pushed open Deacon's office door, his face etched with worry. "Deacon, what in God's name are you doing? The patient from the bridge crash – Clarissa Hester – she needs you. Her pupils are blown, she's herniating. Every second counts!"
Deacon didn't even look up from the financial report he was pretending to read. "Dr. Lee, I already told Brenda. I' m unavailable. Dr. Sharma is fully capable." His voice was flat, dismissive, as if discussing a trivial procedural matter.
"Capable?" Dr. Lee's voice rose, a raw edge to it. "She's a resident! This isn't a training case, Deacon. This is Clarissa. Your fiancée. She's dying!"
"Her condition was superficial," Deacon stated, finally looking up, his eyes cold. "I assessed her at the scene. She just needs a few stitches, maybe a cast. Kimberlee was the one in distress."
"Superficial?" Dr. Lee laughed, a bitter, broken sound. "Her right hand is pulverized! She has a massive epidural hematoma! She's had multiple cardiac arrests en route! If you don't scrub in, she won't make it to dawn!"
Deacon just shook his head, a faint, condescending smile playing on his lips. "You're overreacting, Doctor. Clarissa is dramatic. She'll be fine. A little rest, and she'll be back to herself. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have important family matters to attend to." He gestured vaguely towards the hospital wing where Kimberlee was housed. "Kimberlee needs me."
Dr. Lee stared at him, his face a mask of disbelief and disgust. He opened his mouth as if to argue, then closed it, his shoulders slumping. He turned and walked out, the heavy door clicking shut behind him like a final judgment.
My ghost watched, a silent scream trapped within my ethereal form. My heart, which no longer beat, felt a phantom ache, a searing pain unlike any physical wound. The sorrow that flowed through me felt like liquid ice, freezing me from the inside out.
He truly believed Kimberlee's lies, his own biased assessment, over the frantic pleas of an experienced trauma surgeon. He chose Kimberlee's manufactured panic over my dying breath.
That was it. That was the line. The final, brutal truth. He didn't love me. He never had. He loved the idea of me, perhaps, or the convenience. But he never saw me. Not truly. And in that moment, floating above his cold, indifferent face, I decided. My tether to him, this wretched, painful link, would one day break. And when it did, I would be free. Truly free.
Deacon spent the next two days mostly in Kimberlee's private suite, tending to her every whim, playing the doting protector. He only left to handle crucial hospital business, delegating everything else. On the third night, after Kimberlee had finally drifted off to sleep, a strange restlessness seemed to grip him. He paced the opulent room, his jaw tight, his usual self-assured facade cracking just slightly.
My ghost hovered nearby, observing him. I knew what he was feeling. It wasn't concern for me, or guilt over his actions. It was annoyance. Annoyance that I hadn't called, hadn't shown up, hadn't played my part in his carefully constructed drama.
He was used to me calling first. Used to me always reaching out, always smoothing things over. He expected me to be there, waiting for him to decide he was ready to acknowledge me again. He expected me to apologize for being "dramatic," for getting in the way of his precious Kimberlee. That had always been our dynamic. He pushed, I pulled back, then I compromised, and we'd fall back into our toxic rhythm.
But I wasn't playing that game anymore. I was dead.
He stalked back to his office, throwing open a drawer and rummaging through it. He was looking for my pager, the one he'd tossed in there. He pulled it out, then frowned. It was cracked, the screen dark, unresponsive. He must have damaged it when he threw it in his rage, or when he came back to his office the night of the accident. I remember the sound of it hitting the wall. Now it was beyond repair.
"Damn it," he muttered, tossing the broken device onto his desk. He grabbed his personal cell phone, scrolling through his contacts, his thumb hovering over my name. He hesitated, then slammed the phone down.
He finally called Brenda, his assistant. "Has Clarissa called in? Any messages from her?"
"No, Dr. Grant," Brenda's voice was hesitant. "Nothing. No one from St. Jude's has reported on her condition either. I tried to follow up, but they said they couldn't release any information."
Deacon frowned, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Annoyance? Unease? A phantom chill ran down his spine, a feeling he couldn't quite place. He dismissed it as fatigue.
He picked up the broken pager, stared at it for a long moment, then, with a huff of irritation, tossed it into the waste bin. He grabbed his office phone, punched in a number. "Brenda, use your personal phone. Send a message to Clarissa. Tell her if she doesn't call me back immediately, I'm canceling the wedding. Tell her I'm tired of her dramatics."
My ghost hovered, watching the scene unfold. I wanted to laugh, a hollow, bitter sound. He was still trying to control me, even from the grave. Still trying to threaten me into submission.
You're too late, Deacon, I thought, a profound weariness settling over my spirit. You're too late for everything.
I wouldn't call him back. Not now. Not ever again.
