Tethered Spirit: Bound To My Murderer Husband
My son was dying in my arms, and the man who should have been saving him was likely choosing an engagement ring for another woman.
I rushed Jeremy to the Emergency Room, his small body heavy and limp against my chest. But the person blocking the sliding doors wasn’t a doctor. It was Yvonne, my fiancé Benedict's new lover.
She looked at my desperate, rain-soaked face and sneered.
"Don't ruin my night with your drama," she hissed. "Benedict is busy."
She and her brother shoved me back onto the wet floor. My son died on the cold tiles of the entrance. My heart gave out moments later, unable to bear the grief.
When Benedict finally walked past our bodies, he didn't even look at our faces. He crumpled up the note I had written begging for help and tossed it into the trash.
"Unbelievable," he muttered. "She uses the kid as an excuse to interrupt my shift again."
He stepped over his own dead son to go to a party.
But I didn't disappear. I became a ghost, invisible and tethered to him by an unbreakable chain. I watched him laugh with the woman who killed us. I watched him live his perfect life while I floated in the void.
Until he found the autopsy report. Until he saw the date of birth. Until he found the broken locket in the evidence bag engraved with *Benedict & Ava*.
Now, he spends every night crying into the dark, begging for a forgiveness he will never get.
He thinks he is simply haunted. He has no idea he is paying a blood debt that will never end.
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Chapter 6
Benedict POV
The fragment of metal sealed inside the evidence bag was smaller than a dime, yet it sat in my palm with the crushing density of a collapsing star.
I sat at my desk, the air in the office stagnant, thick enough to choke on, as if I were drowning on dry land.
My hands trembled violently as I held the plastic up to the harsh fluorescent light.
A twisted silver setting. A jagged, blood-red chip of ruby. And on the back, etched in microscopic letters I had paid a jeweler a fortune to engrave seven years ago: B & A.
Benedict and Ava.
Acid climbed my throat, hot and vile.
The memory of the day I reclaimed it clawed at me. I had told her it was too ostentatious for a stay-at-home mother. I told her my mother wanted it for the family collection.
I had lied.
I had pried the main stone loose for Yvonne simply because she claimed she needed a ruby to match her gown for the hospital gala.
But Ava... Ava had scavenged this scrap. This tiny, broken setting. She had worn it like a talisman. She was wearing it last night when she came to me, begging for help.
And I had crumpled her desperate note and tossed it into the trash.
My gaze fell to the autopsy report. Jeremy Fuller. Age six. Cause of death: Delayed treatment.
I killed him.
I didn't pull a trigger, but I might as well have put the gun to his temple. I let the woman I vowed to cherish and the son I neglected die on the cold tiles of my own hospital, all while I fretted over a cocktail party.
A sound tore from my throat—a low, guttural keen that belonged to a wounded animal, not a man. I gripped the heavy crystal paperweight on my desk and hurled it across the room.
It collided with my framed medical diploma, shattering the glass into a thousand shaming shards.
The door swung open.
Yvonne stood in the frame. She didn't look concerned; she looked annoyed, her gaze flicking dismissively over the debris.
"Really, Ben?" she sighed, stepping delicately over the wreckage. "You're acting like a petulant child. Your father is already overreacting, and now you’re throwing tantrums?"
She strode toward me, her heels clicking a sharp, authoritative rhythm on the floor. That sound used to ignite my desire. Now, it grated like a drill against a raw nerve.
I looked at her. I truly saw her for the first time.
I saw the flawless makeup. The tailored, expensive scrubs. The absolute, chilling void of empathy in her eyes.
How had I been so blind?
"Get out," I rasped. My voice was a whisper, but it felt like swallowing gravel.
Yvonne rolled her eyes, planting a hand on her hip.
"Stop this melodrama. We need to strategize. If that woman talks to the press—"
"She is dead, Yvonne!" I roared, shooting to my feet.
Yvonne flinched, retreating a step.
"She is dead," I repeated, stalking around the desk to close the distance. "And my son is dead. Because of you. Because of me."
Yvonne crossed her arms, her defensive walls slamming into place.
"It is not my fault she was weak. And that boy... he was likely terminally ill already. You cannot blame me for following hospital protocol."
"Protocol?" A dry, hysterical laugh escaped me. "You blocked the door. You called her a whore. You watched a child turn blue and suffocate while you chattered about a party."
I stopped inches from her face, invading her space.
"We are done, Yvonne."
She blinked, stunned. "Excuse me?"
"Get out of my office. Get out of my life. If I see you in this hospital again, I will personally drag you out by your hair."
Yvonne’s face twisted, the mask of civility shattering completely.
"You are pathetic," she spat. "You think you’re some tragic hero? You’re just a weak man who couldn’t keep it in his pants. You deserve this misery. That brat deserved to die just to teach you a lesson."
The world seemed to stop spinning.
The silence in the room was absolute, heavy as a shroud.
My eyes drifted to the scalpel resting on my desk tray. For a second—one terrifying, seductive second—I wanted to wrap my fingers around it. I wanted to carve the same pain into her that she had inflicted on them.
But I didn't.
"I am the one who deserves to die," I said, my voice hollow, void of all warmth. "But I am going to live. I am going to live every single day remembering what I did. And I am going to make sure you never hurt anyone ever again."
Yvonne sneered, turning on her heel.
"You will come crawling back," she threw over her shoulder as she reached the door. "You always do."
She slammed the door, leaving a ringing silence in her wake.
I sank to the floor, clutching the evidence bag against my heart as if it contained the last beat of my life. I curled into a ball, pressing the cold plastic against my fevered forehead.
"I am sorry," I whispered to the empty, judging room. "I am sorry, Ava. I am sorry, Jeremy."
I squeezed my eyes shut, praying for the darkness to swallow me whole.
Somewhere in the still air, a cold draft brushed against my wet cheek. It felt like a hand. A soft, familiar touch trying to wipe away my tears.
But when I opened my eyes, there was nothing there but empty air and the wreckage of the life I had destroyed.