Haunting The Husband Who Ignored My Pleas
The bomb strapped to my chest had less than a minute on the timer.
I called my husband, begging him to save me.
"Kevin, please. This is real. I'm going to die."
But Kevin just sighed, his voice dripping with annoyance.
"Stop the drama, Michelle. Violet is having a panic attack because her cat is stuck in a tree. I don't have time for your jealousy games."
He hung up.
Moments later, the warehouse exploded, and I was gone.
But I didn't cross over. My spirit was tethered to Kevin, an invisible spectator to his life.
I watched him roll his eyes at my mother’s frantic calls.
I watched him perform the autopsy on my charred body, convinced I was actually hiding in a hotel to punish him.
It wasn't until he returned to the blast site and found my wedding ring in the ash that he finally broke.
He fell to his knees, screaming my name.
I thought his remorse would free me.
But then he discovered the truth: Violet had orchestrated my murder.
He cornered her, his grief mutating into a violent, obsidian hatred.
I tried to drift away, but the invisible chain binding me to him suddenly tightened, crushing my soul.
I realized with absolute horror that the truth hadn't set me free.
His hatred was an anchor, heavier than his love ever was.
I wasn't just a ghost anymore.
I was his haunting, and I was never leaving.
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Chapter 3
Michelle POV
The morgue was a sterile box of steel and silence, reeking of formaldehyde and the metallic tang of dried blood. It was Kevin’s kingdom.
My body lay exposed on the stainless steel table. They had cleaned off the debris, leaving only the devastating truth of the damage.
I hovered near the ceiling, a silent spectator tethered to the room. I couldn't look away. I was forced to witness my own autopsy, performed by the man who thought I was currently sleeping soundly in a hotel room.
Kevin switched on the voice recorder, the red light blinking like a singular, unblinking eye. "Autopsy of Jane Doe. Case number 4928. External examination reveals extensive blast injuries."
His scalpel moved with terrifying precision. He was a brilliant pathologist. As a man, he was morally bankrupt, but with a blade in his hand, he was an artist.
He worked in silence for a while, peeling back the layers of the woman I used to be.
Then, he paused.
His hand froze mid-air. He leaned in closer, his brow furrowing above his mask.
"William," he called out. His voice was different. Tighter.
William hurried over, snapping to attention. "Yeah?"
"Look at the uterus," Kevin said. He used the forceps to point. "Enlarged. Thickened lining."
William squinted under the harsh exam lights. "Is that...?"
"A gestational sac," Kevin confirmed. He stood up straight, stripping off his bloody gloves with a sharp snap. "She was pregnant. About eight weeks, I'd guess."
The room spun around me.
Pregnant.
I didn't know.
I looked down at my ruined stomach. A baby. We had a baby. Sudden flashes of memory bombarded me—the overwhelming fatigue, the missed period I had dismissed as the byproduct of a stressful month. I had been carrying a life inside me while he was busy chasing Violet's cat.
A wave of grief hit me, heavier than the bomb that had killed me. I curled into a ball in the air, sobbing silent, dry tears. *I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, little one.*
"That's tragic," William whispered. "Two lives."
Kevin sighed, a sound of clinical exhaustion rather than sorrow. He ran a hand over his face. "Yeah. It's sad."
"Just sad?" William asked, a hint of judgment seeping into his tone.
"It happens, William. Wrong place, wrong time. Some poor bastard is going to wake up tomorrow and realize he lost his girlfriend and his kid. But that's not our problem. Our problem is identifying her so we can tell him."
*You are the guy, Kevin!* I screamed, my voice soundless against the tiled walls. *It's your kid!*
He walked over to the sink to wash his hands. He looked at his reflection in the metal dispenser. He didn't look sad. He looked tired.
"Get the DNA samples to the lab ASAP," Kevin ordered. "I want this closed."
His phone rang on the counter. The screen lit up with a picture of a golden retriever. *Violet.*
His face softened instantly. The professional mask dropped, replaced by a tenderness I hadn't seen in years.
"Hey, Vi," he answered, drying his hands. "Yeah, I'm almost done. Are you okay? Did you drink the tea I told you to?"
I floated closer, listening to her voice, tinny and small through the speaker.
"I'm scared, Kevin," she whined. "I had a nightmare about Daniel. Can you come over?"
"I'll be there in twenty minutes," he promised, his voice dripping with reassurance. "Don't cry. I've got you."
He hung up.
Immediately, the phone rang again. This time, the screen said *Joyce*. My mother.
Kevin groaned, the sound vibrating with irritation. He rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful.
"Ignore," he muttered, silencing the call with a dismissive swipe.
"Boss, isn't that Michelle's mom?" William asked. "She's called the station three times asking for you."
"She's hysterical because Michelle isn't answering her phone," Kevin said, grabbing his car keys. "They feed off each other's drama. If I answer, I'll be on the phone for an hour listening to them cry about how mistreated Michelle is. I have real problems to deal with."
"But the news report..." William hesitated, shifting his weight. "They released the description of the victim's height and weight. It matches Michelle."
Kevin paused at the door. He looked back at my body on the table.
For a second, just a split second, doubt flickered in his eyes.
Then he shook his head. "Michelle is 5'6. This body is... well, it's hard to measure exactly with the trauma. Besides, Michelle is terrified of fire. She wouldn't go near an old warehouse. She's fine, William. Stop trying to make this a soap opera."
He walked out, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.
The invisible chain yanked me hard. I was dragged through the wall, leaving my body and my unborn child alone in the cold dark.