When Love Turned To A Grave

Elara Morgan's POV:

Three days flew by.

For a ghost like me, time flowed like a long, agonizing river.

On the morning of the fourth day, the black motorcade reappeared.

This time, there was another figure in the convoy. Annabelle.

She looked haggard, pale and weak, leaning heavily on Christian's arm as if she had lost all her former vitality.

Her once-bright eyes were dull, the cunning gleam replaced by a genuine vulnerability that made my ghostly form shudder with a twisted sense of satisfaction.

Five years ago, her arrogance had been sharp as a blade, but now, she looked almost pathetic. Almost.

Christian held her tenderly, as if she were made of spun glass. He helped her out of the car, his movements gentle, his eyes full of concern.

His unwavering devotion to her burned a fresh hole through my phantom heart.

I stood beside Bertram on the edge of the crowd, like a silent sentinel. He waited, brave and defiant, for Christian's next move. Of course, Christian only had eyes for the living.

All he saw were the villagers, the rundown houses, and the empty space where I was supposed to be.

"Elara!" Christian's voice rang out again, tinged with unconcealed fury. "Are you really this cold-blooded? To let your own sister suffer like this?"

His words were a cruel mockery of the truth.

Cold-blooded?

He was the one who banished me. She was the one who orchestrated my death.

He paused, deliberately letting the silence stretch, then continued, his tone softening to a saccharine sweetness that made me sick to my stomach.

"Listen, Elara, I know you've been through a lot. But we can fix this. I'll pave the way. I'll bring in doctors, build a clinic. Your life here will... improve. Just come back."

He spoke of money and comfort, as if my life, my love, and my death could all be bought.

"You can have your old life back," he promised, his eyes scanning the villagers, trying to gauge their reactions. "The status. The position."

Then, he delivered the most heartless insult of all.

"And the child," he added, his tone utterly devoid of warmth. "I'll treat her as if she were my own."

My own child.

The child he had just tried to kill.

The child he still refused to acknowledge as his own.

He thought he was being generous; he thought he was saving me. He genuinely believed he was making a "massive concession."

His arrogance was astounding.

Bertram, as composed as ever, stood his ground. He didn't give Christian any easy answers, nor did he yield an inch.

"Christian," Bertram began, his voice raspy. "Elara suffered greatly here. After you sent her away, she was entirely alone, utterly isolated."

"It didn't take long for some local thugs to start harassing her." Hearing those words was a bitter comfort, a soothing balm to my scarred soul.

Finally, someone was speaking the truth.

"We found her," Bertram's voice trembled. "She was lying in a field, barely clinging to life. Her body was... covered in bruises. Christian, she was violated. Beaten black and blue. And worse..."

He paused, fighting back a sob.

"She didn't make it. We buried her ourselves in the little cemetery at the edge of the woods. It was the only thing we could do for her."

Christian let out a dark chuckle.

"You expect me to believe this fairy tale? And what about the child? Let me guess, the product of Elara's lover? Just another lie to cover up her infidelity?"

His face was etched with mockery and disbelief. He still couldn't accept that I was truly dead. That it hadn't been my choice.

"The child was born the night Elara came to us," Bertram explained, his gaze unwavering. "She was pregnant when she arrived, Christian. Kaelen is your daughter. Your own flesh and blood."

"After Elara passed, we took the child in. It was our duty."

Annabelle, still clinging tightly to Christian, flinched. A flash of surprise crossed her features, followed quickly by a cold, cruel shadow sweeping over her pale face.

She knew. She had always known.

My mind instantly flashed back to that night.

The night Christian kicked me out.

The night Annabelle came to my cabin. She hadn't come to comfort me; she had come to destroy me.

I could see her again, a vicious, triumphant smirk playing on her lips. She wasn't fragile then; she was a viper. She brought three men with her. Three animals.

"My dear sister," she cooed, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "Did you really think you could have Christian? You, the one who was always destined to be second best?"

They pinned me to the floor. I wailed, my voice hoarse, consumed by terror, heavily pregnant with our child.

Annabelle slapped me hard across the face, over and over. My ears rang.

"This is for marrying him," she hissed, her eyes gleaming with insane jealousy. "This is for stealing what is mine!"

Then she grabbed my fingers and twisted violently.

She ground the heel of her shoe into my knuckles until the bones shattered. I screamed. The agony was blinding.

"He was meant to be mine!" she shrieked, her voice rough with madness.

She kicked me, her slender foot connecting with my ribs and my stomach.

I curled into a ball, trying to protect the baby in my womb, but my cries were smothered by a rough, calloused hand clamped over my mouth.

When it was over, I lay gasping on the floor, barely conscious. She leaned in close, her hot, sugary breath ghosting over my ear.

"You think this is over? You think you escaped? No, Elara. How dare you live, how dare you breathe the same air as Christian. You will pay the price."

Then, she issued her final, unforgivable order: "Kill her. Make it look like an accident. Make her suffer."

Those three men. They followed her orders. They violated me. They brutalized me.

In the dark, surrounded by pain and terror, my heart stopped beating.

My soul broke free, rising above my broken shell, watching as they tossed my lifeless body into a ditch.

Annabelle. She was the one who orchestrated my murder.

And now, here she was, lying in Christian's arms, playing the innocent victim, while her body—weakened by a real disease—was finally paying off her karmic debt.

Christian was still talking, still demanding answers, still refusing to believe I was dead.

But I knew. I knew all his efforts were in vain. My physical body was long gone.

My sweet Kaelen, my daughter, was the only mark I had left in this cruel world.