Chapter 1

Philippa's POV

On the day I died, Roland was rolling in the sheets with his adopted sister, Lavinia.

When the hospital called with my death notice, he scoffed. It was just drawing some blood, how could anyone die from that? He was certain I was just throwing a tantrum again, desperate for his attention.

The day he received my ashes, he personally smashed the wooden urn to the ground. His expensive leather shoes ground my ashes into the floor over and over as he coldly announced he was going to marry Lavinia and throw a grand wedding—the exact wedding I had begged for when I was alive but never got.

It wasn't until the day before their wedding that his assistant, Desmond, rushed in, trembling.

"Sir, it's bad... We pulled the security footage from the hospital, and... the madam's autopsy report."

—

I floated in mid-air, staring at the extremely pale corpse on the hospital bed.

It was my body.

Because of the prolonged blood drawings for Lavinia, my underlying conditions had severely worsened, ultimately leading to organ failure and death.

Outside the door, a nurse gripped the phone, her voice trembling like a leaf in the wind. "Mr. Ashford... I apologize for the interruption, but Ms. Boone... she didn't make it. She has been pronounced dead."

The other end of the line was silent for a second before a blush-inducing moan echoed through.

"Roland... be gentle..." It was Lavinia’s voice.

My supposed husband, the CEO of Ashford Group, was busy making love to his adopted sister.

Roland’s lazy, cold voice came through the receiver, laden with undisguised mockery.

"Dead? Is your hospital helping her put on a show now too?"

"No, Mr. Ashford, Ms. Boone is really..." The nurse was on the verge of tears.

"Enough," Roland interrupted impatiently. "How does someone die from donating a little blood? Tell Philippa that her cheap tricks to force me back won't work."

The nurse held the medical record, shivering. "We wouldn't dare joke about this. The cart from the morgue is already here. How would you like us to handle the remains...?"

"Since she's dead, cremate her," Roland sneered. "Don't leave her to rot and stink. Call me when you have the ashes."

The call was abruptly disconnected.

My soul hovered near the ceiling, watching helplessly as my body was zipped into a cold body bag. He didn't even care to come and take one last look, simply condemning me to this ending.

Two hours later, in the crematorium’s lounge.

Sal, a crematorium staff member, held my urn, sweating profusely as he dialed Roland's number.

"Mr. Ashford, the ashes possess..."

"Shut up. I'll be right there."

Barely twenty minutes later, the door was kicked open.

Roland walked in with his arm around Lavinia. Their clothes were slightly disheveled, and Lavinia even had a fresh hickey on her neck, clearly having just finished a passionate session.

"Where are the ashes?" Roland leaned against the doorframe, his tone as casual as if asking for a cup of coffee.

Sal handed over the cheap wooden box with trembling hands.

"This is Ms. Boone's..."

Roland took it, weighed it in his hands, his eyes full of ridicule.

"What? You swept up some stranger’s dead ashes to fool me?" He raised an eyebrow at Lavinia. "The actor she hired this time is pretty good."

Sal frantically waved his hands. "It's absolutely her! The forensic doctor even verified it! These are indeed your wife's ashes!"

Roland stared at the box for a moment, then suddenly chuckled.

"Is that so? Then I'll believe it just this once."

The next second, he let go.

The wooden box slammed heavily onto the hard marble floor, instantly shattering into pieces.

Grayish-white powder scattered everywhere, coating the ground.

"Ah!" Sal screamed in horror. "What are you doing?!"

I floated powerlessly above the ashes.

A cruel smile bloomed on Roland's face.

"Oops. My hand slipped."

While offering a fake apology, his expensive handmade leather shoes stepped directly onto the powder, twisting his toe hard to grind my ashes.

The sound was like he was crushing my very soul.

Desolation and despair thoroughly engulfed me. I wanted to scream, to stop him, but my hands only passed pointlessly through his body.

"Philippa, faking your death to this extent—let me see how much longer you can hold out." He kept casually trampling the ashes, sneering at the empty air. "Come out. Don't make me sweep this pile of trash down the drain."

He firmly believed this was just a clumsy farce.

Watching his hate-filled profile, I suddenly remembered that when Grandma Mabel first set us up, he had looked at me with the exact same disgust.

Later, our relationship actually improved. He would even cancel important meetings just for me.

Until Lavinia came back. Until the day Grandma Mabel died. Until that photo of me and Graham "looking disheveled" was sent to his phone.

He turned back into that demon who wished I were dead.

I couldn't help but think sorrowfully—if he knew I was truly dead, would he regret it?

Lavinia seemed frightened by the scene. She tugged at Roland's sleeve, speaking tentatively.

"Roland... what if... what if these really are Philippa's ashes?"

I held my breath, staring intently at Roland's face.

Even just a "That's impossible"—I wanted to hear a hint of hesitation from him.

Roland stopped grinding his foot.

He looked down at the messy grayish-white powder on the floor and slightly frowned.

"If these really are Philippa's ashes..."

My heart clenched.

"...Then I’d regret scattering her here." A chilling smile curled on Roland's lips as he affectionately pinched Lavinia's chin. "I should have turned her ashes into fireworks to celebrate our wedding next week."