When Love Turned To A Grave

When I was pregnant, my husband, Christian, abandoned me.

Because he chose my sister, Annabelle.

Five years after my tragic death, Annabelle fell critically ill and desperately needed a kidney. That was when they remembered me.

He called, demanding that I drag myself back, but I was no longer capable of answering.

My five-year-old daughter answered instead. "My mommy passed away a long time ago."

He refused to believe the child was his.

Until a DNA report proved their paternity.

As he dug up my grave, the truth finally broke him. Meanwhile, my soul was tethered to his side, forced to witness his entire world crumble to dust.

Chapter 1

Elara Morgan's POV:

The day Christian sent me away was the day he signed my death warrant.

My sister, Annabelle, was beautiful. Everyone thought she was fragile, like a delicate flower that would wither under the slightest pressure.

My husband, Christian, believed this more than anyone else.

She claimed to have a severe personality disorder, and he believed her.

She threatened to self-harm, and he believed that, too.

He even believed her over me—his pregnant wife.

That night five years ago, I was ready to give birth at any moment. My belly was swollen with our child.

"You need to leave," he said coldly.

"Go where, Christian?" My voice was so low it was barely audible, thick with disbelief. I instinctively cradled my belly, a protective gesture.

"To the countryside. It's for Annabelle's recovery. She needs peace and quiet, far away from all the drama."

My existence, my marriage, my thriving life. I was Annabelle's drama?

A car was waiting for me.

It took me to a desolate rural town. No one knew me there. No one cared about me. Just like Christian.

I was utterly heartbroken.

My husband, the all-powerful CEO of a tech empire, had banished his wife to a dilapidated cabin.

All of this was for Annabelle, who was faking mental illness in a bid to tear us apart.

I was all alone, vulnerable, and heavily pregnant. The absolute perfect prey.

Five years ago, the men Annabelle hired found me. They broke in during the dead of night and took everything from me.

My dignity. My life.

My soul lingered here, bound by agony, helplessly watching fate's cruel design unfold.

Now, Annabelle was actually sick. A life-threatening illness. Kidney failure.

The doctors lowered their voices, their tones heavy as they urged Christian to find a blood relative. To find a matching kidney.

He finally remembered me. Not my face, not my love, nor our child—just my kidney.

His call came, five years too late.

In that little cabin, the old landline rang with a frantic, stubborn urgency.

"Elara," his voice was loud and rushed, carrying an undeniable tone of command. "It's Christian. Get ready. I'm sending a car for you. Annabelle needs you."

It wasn't a request; it was an order, as if I were his subordinate, his property.

But the one who answered wasn't me. I was no longer capable of making a sound.

It was Kaelen's voice. My daughter. Our daughter.

"Hello?" she whispered, her voice so tiny it was barely audible, like a frightened little mouse.

Christian paused, a hint of irritation bleeding through. "Who is this? Where is Elara? Put her on the phone."

Kaelen stammered, "Mommy... Mommy is gone. She went away a long time ago."

"What are you talking about?" Christian's voice was laced with annoyance.

He thought I was playing tricks on him, thought I was hiding. He always assumed the absolute worst of me.

Kaelen, in all her innocence, didn't know how to explain death to a man who refused to believe it. "She's... she's not here anymore."

I hovered beside her, my ghostly hand reaching out, wanting to stroke her soft hair and tell her everything would be okay. But my hand phased right through her body, just like always. It was an unbearable agony.

"Hand the phone to an adult," Christian snapped.

Trembling, Kaelen handed the receiver to Pastor Bertram Parker.

He was the one who had taken me in when I first arrived. He was a kind old man who had looked after Kaelen like a grandfather after I was gone.

"Hello?" Bertram's voice was gentle, carrying a quiet dignity.

"Who are you?" Christian's tone was ice-cold.

"This is Bertram Parker, the pastor at the local church. You must be Christian Mason." Bertram knew. He had always known.

Through the ethereal window of my ghostly perception, I could see Christian's face darken. His jaw clenched.

A strange old man was interfering with his plans.

He spoke, his tone stiff. "Where is Elara? Tell her to stop this nonsense. I know she's there."

His arrogance was suffocating. He actually believed I was deliberately hiding from him, manipulating the situation.

"She cannot come to the phone, Christian," Bertram's voice was heavy with sorrow.

"Fine," Christian snarled. "If she wants to play these games, let her. I'll go there myself, and she's coming back with me whether she likes it or not." With that, he hung up, the abrupt click serving as a declaration of his absolute control.

The very next day, he arrived. A fleet of sleek black sedans kicked up dust as they rolled down that forgotten road.

He strode toward the dilapidated cabin, his expensive suit a jarring contrast to the peeling paint and the rickety porch. He scowled in disgust. The poverty of this place offended his wealthy sensibilities. My final home.

He found one of his men, a burly bodyguard, standing by the porch.

"Where is she? Elara Morgan. I'm here to take her back. Annabelle needs a kidney transplant. Tell her I'll pay for everything. A new house. A new life. Whatever she wants."

My entire life, reduced to a mere kidney donation.

The bodyguard shifted uncomfortably.

"Sir, perhaps we should wait for the pastor. He might have more information."

Just then, Bertram appeared, leaning on an old cane. His kind face was etched with worry. "Christian," he greeted, his voice remaining calm despite the escalating tension.

Christian narrowed his eyes, his gaze cold and impatient. "Pastor, where is Elara? I've traveled a long way."

Bertram sighed, his voice laced with exhaustion. "She cannot come out to see you."

A cold sneer twisted Christian's lips. "Drop the act, old man. I'm not in the mood for games. Tell her to show herself."

"Christian, please," Bertram began, his tone filled with pity.

"Do not test my patience, Pastor," Christian warned in a low, dangerous voice. "I came here myself. She has no choice but to come with me."

My ghostly form trembled.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to live. I wanted to hold my daughter.

But I couldn't.