Her head jerked to the side. That sickening silence followed—sharp, electric. She gasped. Her hand flew up, ready to swing back at me.
I caught it mid-air.
Tight. Twisted it until she whimpered.
Then I slapped her again. This time with all the force of five years of betrayal, humiliation, and rot.
She stumbled back, holding her face, and for a second—just a second—I saw fear crack through her painted arrogance.
But then she found her weapon.
She crumpled to the floor like some porcelain doll, sobbing loud, fake and frantic.
“Timothy!” she wailed. “Timothy, please!”
Tears poured like someone flipped a switch.
“She’s going to kill me! Charlene’s insane—she hit me! She’s gonna kill me!”
I was still breathing hard, chest rising and falling like a storm ready to break again.
I hadn’t even touched a weapon.
Yet.
But Xandria—
She was a trained snake. She knew the cue.
She screamed again, louder this time. “Timothy, please help me! She snapped! She snapped! I—I think she’s hiding a knife!”
And just like that, a glint of silver flashed past my eye.
A knife.
Buried in the floor. Right at my feet. It wasn’t mine.
But I knew that blade. It was hers.
Custom black grip. Mafia-grade steel.
And it screamed trap.
I looked at the blade. Then at the mirror. Then at her—still crying, still curled up, shaking like a terrified saint.
Then I heard it. Timothy’s voice.
Roaring down the hallway like thunder.
“CHARLENE!”
The door slammed open with a bang. I hadn’t even made it past the front steps. Timothy stormed in like a hurricane—hair wild, shirt half-buttoned, fury in every line of his face. He didn’t even let me speak—just grabbed me by the arm like he owned my skin.
“What the fuck did you do?!” he thundered. “You laid hands on her?! Are you out of your goddamn mind, Charlene?!”
I yanked my arm away. “You want to talk about crazy, Timothy? Let’s start with you forging our marriage. You want receipts? I’ve got them all. Every shell company. Every asset you transferred under your name. I know everything.”
His jaw clenched. His eyes turned cold. Mafia-cold. The version of him no one survived.
“I built this life with you,” I said, voice shaking from rage, not fear. “And you turned it into a grave.”
He didn’t say anything. Then—
Crack.
His hand landed across my face. My head snapped sideways. Blood filled my mouth. And still, I didn’t fall. I looked back at him with the kind of look that should’ve killed.
“You always said you wanted a strong wife,” I said, barely breathing. “Well. Here I am.”
That’s when he lost it. Timothy slammed me against the wall. Fist to ribs. Palm to throat. Blow after blow—calculated, brutal, like he was erasing something. He didn’t hit me like a man. He hit me like a boss giving a lesson.
Behind him, just before my knees gave out, I saw her—Xandria. Leaning by the stairwell. Arms crossed. A smug, delighted gleam in her eyes. She smiled. No pity. Just satisfaction. Like she’d waited her whole life for this exact scene.
I dropped to the marble floor, dizzy, my vision flickering black and red. And he just stood there, breathing hard, like I’d deserved it.
“Get in here,” he barked.
Two men in black entered like shadows summoned from hell. One I recognized. One I didn’t.
“She’s nothing. Trash,” Timothy said, not even looking at me. “Drag her out. Make sure she remembers who owns this city.”
I tried to get up, but the bigger one already had my arm. The other grabbed my shoulder.
“No—no, no—” I wheezed, ribs screaming. They pulled me like I weighed nothing.
The staff watched from a distance. The same people I used to pay, clothe, feed. Not one of them moved. Not one.
The last thing I saw before they shoved me into the SUV was my wedding photo smashed on the hallway floor. Face cracked. Frame twisted. Just like me. Inside the car, Timothy’s voice followed like a curse.
“You're not even my wife. You were for show. A body to fill a seat.” He lit a cigarette. Blew the smoke toward the open window. "Now you're just… gone.”
---
We hit the woods thirty minutes later. They dragged me out, past the trees, to some forgotten stretch of land that smelled like metal and rot.
The taller one raised a pipe. The other hesitated.
“Boss said we kill her. Bury the body.”
“But…” the younger one said, voice unsure. “Miss Charlene helped me pay for my mother’s meds. When Boss left me to rot, she didn’t.”
I tried to focus on him. Tried to remember his name. Everything hurt.
He stepped back. Pulled out his phone.
“Wait,” he said. “I’ll call Alejandro.”
---
Darkness. Dirt. Cold air pressing down on my skin. I don’t remember when I blacked out. All I know is—I woke up half-buried. Leaves, mud, blood soaked into every inch of me. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. Just laid there, tasting death.
Then a voice cut through the trees. Low. Sharp.
“Dig her out.”
Gloved hands pulled back the dirt. I blinked up into storm-gray eyes under a dark hood.
Alejandro. The devil I should’ve said yes to.
He didn’t say a word. Just carried me like I was glass.
---
Weeks passed in a mountain safe house I didn’t recognize. I woke up stitched, bruised, bandaged. My ribs cracked every time I breathed. I walked with a cane. My voice stayed a whisper.
Alejandro watched. He never touched. Never pried. He reminded me of who I used to be. Who I could be again.
---
One afternoon, I heard the news. TV flashing muted colors. Alejandro sitting nearby, reading.
A black coffin. Floral wreaths. Timothy in a dark suit, holding Xandria like she was the grieving widow.
News anchor’s voice rang out:
“Socialite Charlene Colombo, wife of mafia tycoon Timothy Colombo, has been confirmed dead in a tragic car accident...”
Alejandro looked up. Reached for the remote to turn it off.
But I was already laughing. Broken. Cracked. Laughing like a ghost who heard her own funeral.
I walked up to the mirror. Looked at the scars. The stitched skin. The woman they buried.
I smiled at my reflection—ugly, raw, half-alive.
And whispered:
“If I’m a ghost now… then I’ll haunt them.”
