Fletcher closed his eyes and stayed silent for a long time.
“All right. Throw it away.”
“June,” he said, “from now on, I’ll marry you and I’ll never mention Ashley again.”
June smiled, took his hand and gently pressed it to her cheek like a kitten curling up for warmth.
“I knew you’d work through it. We’ll have our own life, our own marriage… and our own children.”
That night, June had changed into a brand-new piece of lingerie she’d just bought and even dabbed on perfume.
But before she could throw herself into his arms, Fletcher’s phone rang.
It was his assistant, sounding breathless with excitement.
“Mr. Reynolds, we’ve found news about Ashley again!”
Fletcher’s expression instantly darkened, his grip tightening on the phone. He shot to his feet.
“What did you just say?”
Even I, floating nearby, was stunned.
I’d been dead for five years.
How could they possibly have news about me?
Could it be… they’d discovered where my body was buried?
Before I could react, a gust of wind seemed to sweep through as Fletcher grabbed his coat and bolted out the door.
Behind him, June’s anxious voice called after him—but no answer.
I drifted along behind him.
Fletcher quickly met up with his assistant.
Panting, the man said, “Mr. Reynolds, I saw Mrs. Rey—oh, I mean Ashley. It’s just… she’s not doing well. She’s working as a housekeeper in a hotel.”
Fletcher’s face turned stormy, but his words were short and sharp.
“Take me there. Now.”
After ten years together, I knew Fletcher’s body language too well.
His whole frame was taut—he’d been waiting for this moment for five long years.
When the assistant moved too slowly, Fletcher cut him off impatiently.
“Forget it. Just give me the address. I’ll find her myself.”
With supposedly my address in hand, he tore into the hotel like a man possessed, searching every floor, every bathroom.
On the 22nd floor, he finally spotted a woman bent over, scrubbing a toilet.
Fletcher froze, his breath coming hard.
“Ashley!”
His voice was hoarse, laced with a cold, bitter laugh as he seized her wrist.
“You took my money, got rid of our baby and walked out on me—and now you’re living like this. Don’t you regret leaving me?” His eyes burned red as he stared at the back of her head.
But when the woman turned around, I couldn’t help but let out a bitter laugh.
It had been a false alarm.
The face was completely unfamiliar.
Fletcher stood stunned for a moment, the light in his eyes dying out.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“I thought you’re someone I know.”
The truth was, in the five years since my death, whenever news about me faded, another rumor would pop up.
The first year, someone claimed that after aborting the baby, I bought a plane ticket overseas and married a local.
Fletcher was still in the hospital then—he crushed a glass in his bare hand when he heard.
Before he’d even recovered enough to be discharged, he ordered his assistant to buy a ticket so he could fly overseas immediately.
He followed every lead he could find, scouring every possible place.
In the end, he came back empty-handed.
But after that, whenever another rumor surfaced about me marrying that man, his brow would crease and he’d pay close attention.
The second year, someone claimed they’d seen me in Paris, taking tourist photos at the Eiffel Tower.
Fletcher immediately canceled an important meeting, booked a ticket and flew straight there—only to come back empty-handed again.
