My Husband Popped Champagne When I Died

On the third day after my death, my husband Sebastian Reynolds got a call from the morgue.

He was in the middle of kissing some woman's neck when his phone rang.

Without pulling away, he hit speaker, his voice flat and cold: "She's dead? Cremate her. Don't call again until she's ash."

Just like that, my body was wheeled into the cremation chamber.

After this body—the one he'd kissed a thousand times before—had been reduced to nothing but dust, the staff called him back.

He made an irritated sound. "Yeah, I know. I'll be there."

Two full hours later, Sebastian's Aston Martin finally pulled up outside the funeral home.

He strode through the doors, yanking his tie loose with one hand. A vivid lipstick stain marked his collar—no mystery where he'd just been or what he'd been doing.

Walking straight to the reception desk, he drummed his fingers impatiently on the counter. "So where is she? You said to come pick her up."

After checking his ID, the attendant carefully handed over the urn.

Sebastian took it with one hand and let out a derisive snort.

"This is actually Kaitlyn? You didn't just sweep up some random shit off the street and stick it in here?"

The attendant's face went white. "Mr. Reynolds, I assure you these are Ms. Kaitlyn's remains. We have complete documentation if you'd like to—"

"Whatever." Sebastian cut him off with a wave.

My soul hovered above, and for one stupid moment, I felt something like relief.

Even if he hated me now, surely after all those years together, he'd at least buy me a plot somewhere. Let me rest in peace.

I should have known better.

CRASH.

Without warning, the urn slipped from his fingers and shattered against the tile floor. The lid burst open. My ashes scattered everywhere.

"Oops." Sebastian spread his hands in mock surprise, but his smile was pure cruelty. "Butterfingers."

Then, deliberately, he lifted his shoe and stepped directly into my ashes, grinding his heel back and forth.

Pain exploded through my soul—excruciating, impossible pain.

I had no body anymore, but somehow this felt worse than anything I'd experienced while alive.

I tried to scream, staring into his ice-cold eyes. Nothing came out.

I could only watch, helpless and hovering, as the last physical trace of my existence was ground into the cheap tile like cigarette ash.

He didn't stop until every last bit had been crushed into the grout, impossible to distinguish from ordinary dust. Only then did he step back, satisfied.

The attendant stumbled backward, hand fumbling for what had to be a security button.

Sebastian just brushed off his hands like he'd touched something dirty. His voice was almost bored: "I don't know how much she paid you people to play along, but do me a favor. Pass along a message."

"Playing-dead routine? Cute. But it won't work on me."

"My mother's death anniversary is coming up. She knows when. Tell her to show up at the cemetery and get on her fucking knees like she's supposed to. Because if she doesn't..."

He paused, and his smile turned absolutely vicious. "Even if she really is dead, she doesn't get to rest. I'll scatter whatever is left of her into the sewer myself."

The look in his eyes made it clear this wasn't a threat. It was a promise.

And I knew that Sebastian was crazy enough to mean every word.

Part of me felt almost grateful I'd already been cremated. At least he couldn't drag my corpse out of the ground.

Before the attendant could respond, Sebastian's phone rang. He answered it and walked out without a backward glance.

Something invisible yanked at me and I had no choice but to follow.

I found myself in his passenger seat, forced to listen as a syrupy voice poured through the speakers.

Claire Reynolds. His adopted sister.

I'd know that poisonous tone anywhere.

When Sebastian and I first went public, Claire had cornered me in a powder room at some gala. Told me to disappear.

When I refused, she'd made it her mission to destroy me—spreading vicious lies through every social circle that mattered, even hiring men to follow me everywhere I went.

The old Sebastian had lost his mind when he found out.

He'd smashed a glass at the next family dinner—right in front of everyone who mattered.

No explanation, no warning. He froze every cent of Claire's trust fund, canceled her credit cards, and had her shit packed and removed from the company offices before dessert was served.

Standing at the head of that table, he'd looked at each of them with absolute fury:

"If anyone—and I mean anyone—touches one hair on Kaitlyn's head, start shopping for coffins. You'll be out of this family before you hit the ground."

Claire had gone silent after that.

But now, hearing my name come up on the call, Sebastian just looked annoyed.

"Why the hell are you bringing her up? Total buzzkill. Besides, she's not actually dead."

"But what if she were?" Claire's voice turned careful, probing. "What if she never came back, Sebastian? What would you do?"

My soul clenched. I stared at him, even though I knew he couldn't see me.

The old Sebastian would have lost his mind at even the suggestion.

Once, I'd gotten a blister from new heels at some charity event, and he'd dropped to one knee right there in front of Manhattan's elite and changed my shoes himself.

He used to hold my face in his hands like I was the only thing in the world worth protecting. He'd sworn that he'd die before he let anyone hurt me.

But now?

Sebastian's hand moved casually on the steering wheel. When he spoke, his voice dripped with contempt.

"If she's really dead?" A cold laugh.

"I'd pop the most expensive champagne in my cellar and throw a party that'd make the tabloids for weeks. Three days minimum—hell, maybe a whole week."