Chapter 3

Jameson's voice burned with anger. Normally, I would've just kept quiet.

And if I didn't respond, his anger would usually fade on its own.

So when he didn't hear a sound from me, he wasn't surprised.

He shoved the door open and kept ranting as he walked in. "Mia, you know what your biggest flaw is? You're too petty! Isabella is your sister, for god's sake. What's wrong with me going to support her at such an important competition like MB?"

He yanked off his tie. "And you think threatening me with death is gonna scare me? Let me tell you something, Mia. Even if you're really dead, it'd serve you right. No one's gonna pity someone who doesn't value their life if they die!"

My fingers curled tighter and tighter as I listened. The disappointment rose up in waves, swelling past my skin, pressing out from my very soul.

How could he say something like that, like a curse?

He didn't seem to notice anything strange. Yelling into the air like that—it was almost comical.

'But Jameson, I wasn't trying to scare you. I really am dead.'

It took him a while to notice the silence hanging in the room like a fog. The bedroom was quiet—eerily so.

He finally stopped mid-sentence and glanced around.

At first glance, nothing looked out of place. The room was still filled with wedding decorations. But by the bathroom wall, something was missing.

Calling out my name, he walked over.

No response, even after calling a few more times.

Then he saw it. His steps froze as if he didn't expect what he was looking at.

The floor in front of the wall was covered in broken glass from when I had smashed our wedding photo.

Jameson stood there, staring at the shattered frame, the torn photo in pieces among the glass. He didn't speak for a long time.

I slowly walked to the wall and crouched down, staring at the fragments scattered across the floor.

We had taken so many photos for that shoot. I had spent so long choosing this one to hang in our bedroom.

He probably never imagined I'd smash it. Or that I'd tear the photo to shreds.

'Surprised, Jameson?' I lifted my head to look at him, curious to see his reaction.

But his eyes had gone cold at some point.

He called out to Marie in a hard voice. "Who ripped up the photo?"

Marie was busy cleaning and hadn't even noticed. She waved her hands quickly. "N-no, not me, sir. I don't know anything about it."

Jameson gave her a look.

She might be old, but not foolish enough to destroy something that important.

He asked again, "Didn't you say Madam was home? Where is she?"

Marie glanced toward the bedroom, not seeing me. "Maybe she stepped out."

Left the house? And smashed the wedding photo?

A cold laugh slipped from his lips. "Mia, you've got some nerve."

With that, he pulled out his phone and dialed my number.

Now he wanted to call me. Too bad the phone was probably long destroyed by whoever killed me.

All these years, I'd never once seen his contact name for me.

Who would've guessed—he had me saved as "Wife."

Looking at that word, a fresh wave of emotion surged inside me, undoing the calm I had just started to gather.

I wanted so badly to ask him—what was I, really, in his heart?

But I would never get the chance now.

The phone rang for five seconds. No one picked up.

In the past, whenever he called, I'd answer immediately, no matter what I was doing. This was the first time the phone had rung for five seconds unanswered.

His patience had always been thin. On the sixth ring, he hung up.

He tossed the phone onto the couch. Didn't even try again.

Marie noticed and spoke up, "Sir, maybe Madam didn't hear it. Why don't you try calling her again?"

Jameson undid his cuff buttons. "If she won't pick up, forget it. I'm not begging her to answer."

He couldn't be bothered to coddle a woman.

Marie tried again. "It's late already, and it's not safe out there. Madam, she…"

Without turning around, he headed toward the bathroom. "If it's not safe, that's her problem. Nothing to do with me."

His voice was sharp, full of irritation. Marie didn't dare say another word.

I stayed crouched in the corner, staring at the shattered wedding photo on the floor.

We used to be so happy.

'Jameson, when will you finally realize I'm already gone?'

Later, I sat on the edge of the bed and tilted my head, watching him sleep.

He was sound asleep, a small smile playing at his lips—still savoring the kiss he'd shared with Isabella, maybe.

Sunlight filtered through the windows, rare for a winter day.

He turned over under the blanket, reaching out instinctively to pull me into his arms.

"Honey… it's so cold…"

His arm brushed against nothing but icy air. Half-awake, he shifted a little, confused by the chill.

Then he opened his eyes, slowly. The space beside him was completely empty.

He froze for a moment, like his brain short-circuited.

Sometimes, Jameson really was like a child—quick-tempered, quick to forget.

Overnight, he had already left yesterday's fight behind. It was as if he was genuinely surprised I hadn't come home yet.

But he didn't know—I could never come home again.

He got ready as usual, showered and dressed, then went downstairs for breakfast.

Marie brought the food over.

He glanced at it, brows knitting. "No pierogies?"

His favorite—crab pierogies.

Back when I couldn't sleep, I'd prep the ingredients at night, and someone would cook them fresh for him in the morning.

But I was dead now. Who would make him pierogies?

Marie, still busy clearing snow from the yard, didn't even look up. "Oh, sir, the pierogies were always made ahead by Madam. I'm too old to make fancy things like that. If you want them, you'll have to wait for Madam to come home and make them for you."

He said nothing. Just took a sip of milk.

After a while, he asked, "When she left… did she say when she'd be back?"

Still focused on the snowblower, Marie answered, "No. I didn't even know when she left."

He opened his phone and looked at the message I'd sent—the one asking for help.

It had already been over ten hours, but there was still no sign of me.

I rested my chin on my hand and studied him.

'Finally remembered me?'

He scrolled through his contacts. His finger hovered over "Wife".

Just as he was about to call, a different number flashed across the screen.

Caitlyn was calling.

He picked up. "Hi, Caitlyn, what's up?"

"Isabella won the championship. Bring Mia home for dinner—we'll celebrate as a family."

I was right next to him. I heard every word clearly.

As a mother, she didn't say a single thing about him leaving his bride behind at the wedding. She was too busy celebrating her other daughter's win.

Snow had fallen through the night. The wintry scene outside pressed its chill through my eyes, into my bones.

After hanging up, Jameson picked up his suit jacket and headed for the door. Before leaving, he told Marie, "If she comes back, let me know."

'Ridiculous. Jameson, if you cared whether I came home, why didn't you call again? Why didn't you worry about my safety?'

The car soon pulled up at my family's house.

Caitlyn was already waiting at the door. She never liked me much, but she treated Jameson—her golden son-in-law—well enough.

She looked at the empty passenger seat and frowned, visibly displeased.

"Mia didn't come back with you?"