Chapter 4
883words
After settling her into the guest room, he loosened his tie, but his eyes instinctively began searching the empty apartment.
We’d been together for five years; I knew exactly what he was looking for.
He was looking for the glass of whiskey I’d have waiting for him every night. He was looking for the steaming hot bath I’d have drawn. He was looking for the woman who always kept a light on for him, no matter how late it got.
I hovered by the crystal chandelier, watching him pace irritably through the rooms, finding nothing but cold, expensive furniture.
A moment later, he pulled out his phone and stared at our empty chat log.
It was pathetic.
Now he remembers me?
Or maybe this is just the way men like him work. Now that there’s no one to play maid and waitress, no fiancé at his beck and call, he finally realizes something is missing.
Lorenzo hesitated for a long time before making a decision. His fingers tapped aggressively on the screen as he sent a text in that same commanding tone:
“Enough with the drama. Get back here. If you show up right now, I’ll overlook your little disappearing act from last night.”
Watching those words appear, my soul shuddered. Ghostly tears fell before I could stop them.
This was the difference between being loved and being tolerated.
Even when I was dead, in his world, I was still the one in the wrong.
Just then, Isabella’s weak voice called out from the guest room. Lorenzo instantly shoved his phone away, wiped the irritation from his face, and walked in with a look of pure tenderness.
Isabella was propped up against the headboard, pale-faced but with eyes that knew exactly how to hook him.
"Lorenzo... are you still mad at me?"
Lorenzo sat on the edge of the bed, shaking his head with a sigh as he stroked her cheek.
"How could I ever be mad at you? You know I can never say no to you."
Right in the middle of that sweet moment, the landline in the living room shrieked.
It was the hardline—the one reserved for police business or official emergencies.
A spark of hope lit up Lorenzo’s eyes. He clearly thought I was calling to crawl back to him. But the moment he picked up, his expression turned as dark as a stagnant pool.
The voice on the other end was professional and completely devoid of emotion.
"Is this Mr. Lorenzo Caruso? This is the NYPD Major Crimes Unit."
"We discovered a female body in an abandoned slaughterhouse in Brooklyn earlier today. Dental records have confirmed the identity of the deceased as your fiancée, Ms. Elena Falcone."
"The victim was subjected to inhuman torture before death. We’ve been unable to reach the heads of the Falcone family. We need you to come down to the precinct immediately to—"
Before the officer could finish, Lorenzo ripped the phone cord out of the wall.
With a violent crack, he smashed the handset into pieces against the floor.
"Elena, you crazy bitch! You’re really taking this act all the way!"
Lorenzo’s chest heaved, the rage in his eyes enough to burn the building down.
Isabella walked out of the bedroom barefoot. Hearing his outburst, her beautiful eyes darted around for a second before she wrapped her arms around Lorenzo’s waist from behind.
"Lorenzo, don't be angry... If my sister doesn't want to marry you, don't force her."
"You know... I’ve always been so jealous of her. Jealous that she got to have you..."
Before she even finished the sentence, Isabella stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips against Lorenzo’s.
Lorenzo went rigid for a split second.
But soon, fueled by alcohol and pure spite, he took control. He scooped Isabella up and pinned her down onto the living room sofa.
"You’re right," he growled. "She didn't know how good she had it."
I watched the scene in a trance.
My body wasn't even cold yet, and my fiancé was having sex with my own sister on the very sofa I had picked out for our home.
The tragedy of my life hit its peak in that moment.
The pain was so sharp that I eventually went numb.
I tried with everything I had to turn away, to flee this disgusting hellscape.
But my soul was pinned to the spot. I was forced to watch them tangle together, listening to their breathing, watching Isabella shoot a provocative look into the empty air—almost as if she knew I was watching.
I don't know how much time passed before a sudden, violent pounding erupted at the front door.
Lorenzo was interrupted. Infuriated, he grabbed a sofa cushion and hurled it toward the door.
The pounding didn't stop.
Lorenzo pushed Isabella off him, threw on a shirt, and stomped to the door, his face twisted with murderous intent. He swung it open.
"You want to die? Who the hell do you think you are, kicking my—"
The words died in his throat the moment he saw who was outside.
It wasn't a patrol cop. It was a squad of FBI agents in full tactical gear and stone-faced detectives from Major Crimes.
