Elara Morgan's POV:
Christian stood there, his gaze fixed on Kaelen's tiny, motionless body. Her chest barely rose and fell, emitting only weak, desperate gurgles.
He let out a cold, sharp laugh.
"Still playing dead, Elara? You truly have a heart of stone. Watching your own creation... fall to her death."
He still thought it was a scam. Still thought I was hiding in the wings, coldly observing it all.
Ignoring Christian's callous words, the young man rushed to Kaelen's side, his face pale and stricken with horror.
"She needs a doctor! We have to get her to a hospital immediately!" He reached out to scoop her up, his hands shaking violently.
Christian glared at him, his tone dripping with disdain.
"Mind your own business!"
The young man threw the document at Christian's feet.
The paper unfolded slightly, revealing the bold black print across the top.
"How is this not your business?! She's your daughter, you idiot!"
Christian's eyes fell to the paper, locking onto the words. "DNA Paternity Test Results."
Clear, irrefutable confirmation.
Christian Mason. Father.
Kaelen Mason. Daughter.
He froze.
The arrogant mask he always wore instantly shattered.
Disbelief tangled with a horrifying dawn of realization.
He looked over at Annabelle a few feet away, who was wide-eyed, feigning shock.
Then he looked back down at the report.
His lips moved, soundlessly forming words in absolute agony.
"No, this is impossible. Annabelle said..."
Annabelle, ever the manipulator, rushed to his side and threw her arms around his rigid body. "Christian, what's wrong? What happened?"
He shoved her away violently, his hands balling into tight fists at his sides. His jaw was clenched so hard the muscles in his cheeks twitched.
He stared at the report, then at Kaelen's motionless form, then back down at the report.
"Where is she?" he roared, his voice hoarse and trembling. "Elara! Where are you?! You'll pay for this! You'll pay for everything!"
He still didn't get it. He still thought I was alive, still thought I was to blame for this cruel reality.
A pale-faced bodyguard hesitantly took a step forward.
"Sir... we... we found something else." He swallowed hard, his eyes nervously darting toward the woods. "We found a... a grave. With her name on it."
Christian's body went rigid.
His eyes widened, a flicker of sheer terror flashing in their depths.
He fought to compose himself, desperately wanting to brush it off as just another trick.
"A grave?" he spat. "Nonsense. Just another one of Elara's elaborate ploys. She wants to hide, wants me to think she's dead so she can escape the consequences. It won't work."
He was lying to himself.
Perhaps he even realized he was lying to himself, but he refused to admit it. His voice was too raspy, too fragile.
"Take me there."
He strode toward the woods, his usually confident gait turning into a frantic stumble.
Christian had clearly realized something.
Annabelle tried to stop him, her hands grabbing his arm. "Christian, wait! You're not feeling well! Let the guards handle it!"
He shook her off, his eyes glazed over, staring blankly at some unseen point in the distance.
He didn't even register Annabelle's presence. The mention of my grave had completely derailed his thoughts, shattering his carefully constructed reality.
A painful echo suddenly struck him, a whisper he had ignored for far too long.
He remembered the old pastor's desperate pleas.
Annabelle watched him leave, her perfectly manicured nails digging deep into her palms.
Her usually calculating eyes turned dark and venomous with jealousy.
"Even in death, you won't let him go, will you, Elara?" she hissed under her breath. "But it doesn't matter. You're dead. And he's mine now. Forever."
She cast a chilling, malicious glare at Kaelen lying on the ground.
"What are you thinking, Annabelle?" my ghostly voice shrieked, positioning myself between her and my child. "She's still breathing! Faintly, but she is! Don't touch her!"
Annabelle merely sneered, a cold smile curling her lips, before turning to follow Christian.
They walked down the overgrown path, the air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. They arrived at a secluded little clearing.
A simple wooden cross stood askew in the dirt. Carved roughly by hand was my name:
Elara Morgan. Beloved mother and friend.
Christian stared blankly, his face drained of all color.
His lips trembled; his hands were clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists. The writing on the cross blurred before his eyes.
He tried to speak, but his throat was choked, painfully dry.
A low, guttural sound—half-sob, half-roar—ripped from his throat.
"No! This isn't real!" he bellowed, his voice tearing through the silence. "Dig it up! Dig it up right now! I don't believe it!"
A young guard hesitated. "Sir... with all due respect... we shouldn't disturb the dead."
Christian's eyes were bloodshot, consumed by grief and wild denial.
"Hurry up! Now! I have to see it for myself!"
Terrified by his unhinged fury, the guards had no choice. They grabbed the cross, yanked it from the ground, and started digging. The soil was loose and damp; it gave way easily.
I watched in silence as they uncovered the crude wooden coffin. It was small and cheap.
The lid was pried open. The air grew heavy with an unspeakable dread, as if time itself had frozen. The world held its breath.
