Chapter 6

"She's probably still sulking. Give it a few days—she'll come back on her own," Jameson said crudely.

Marcus frowned. "It's been a week. You haven't contacted her?"

Jameson leaned against the railing, one elbow propped casually. "When have you ever seen me coax a woman?"

"What if something happens to her out there, alone? What if—"

Jameson cut him off, irritation flashing in his voice. "She's a grown woman. What could possibly happen?"

Marcus sighed helplessly. "Don't say I'm overreacting. This past month, Vallencourt's precinct has gotten multiple reports of women being followed by some pervert. Three of them are already dead. Jameson, if something really happens to Mia, it'll be too late for regret."

Regret?

I looked at Jameson's annoyed expression.

'Jameson, if you only knew… while you were out there cheering for Isabella's victory, I had already been decapitated. What's left of me is just another nameless, headless corpse now. Will you regret it when you find out?'

Jameson clearly didn't want to continue the conversation.

"You're just on edge because of your job. Mia's not the type to get into trouble."

His birthday was coming up in a few days. He was confident that I would surely come back to celebrate with him.

Seeing he couldn't get through, Marcus gave up. But before hanging up, he couldn't help but offer one last reminder. "If you can't reach Mia by then, and you can't find her anywhere, report it to the police."

His instincts as an officer told him something wasn't right. But there wasn't much he could do if Jameson wasn't willing to check in on Mia.

…

Steam fogged the bathroom mirror.

Isabella wrapped her arms around Jameson's waist from behind, her voice soft, almost a whisper. "Stay with me tonight, will you?"

He'd only stopped by to say a quick hello before leaving.

He hadn't expected her to be in the shower.

And she hadn't hesitated to press her naked body against him.

Clinging to the last strands of rationality, Jameson refused. "It's late. If someone finds out—"

Her toes brushed playfully against his ankle. Her voice was softer and more coquettish than usual. "Why don't we go to Mia's room? She's not home. No one will know."

Jameson grabbed a bathrobe and wrapped it around her without saying anything, then turned and walked into my room.

Moments later, I heard indecent sounds drifting from the small terrace.

I chuckled quietly and floated away.

They really did crave the thrill.

Of all places, they picked my old room.

After witnessing so many betrayals firsthand, my heart had gone numb. Even the pain had become a dull habit.

I didn't follow them. I just stood in the living room, staring out at the falling snow, my thoughts scattered.

I didn't know how much longer I could keep following Jameson like this.

I didn't know how to process all this emotion trapped inside me. Where was I supposed to go from here?

…

In Saint Carmine, the Whitmore family held immense influence.

To celebrate the Whitmore Corporation's 70th anniversary, Marcus's grandpa, Hank Whitmore, threw a family banquet.

Though called a "family" event, it was really more of a networking gala. The city's elite and powerful were all in attendance.

Luxury cars, beautiful people, champagne everywhere—it was like stepping into a gold-encrusted box, everything was gleaming and grand.

Under normal circumstances, the Dawson family wouldn't have been invited. But because I had married Jameson, we became connected to the Jameson family. So, naturally, we got a seat at the table.

Fresh off her win in the MB 12-hour endurance race, Isabella was instantly the center of attention.

"Isn't she the real Dawson heiress? She's something else."

"Of course she is. She's a national champion in racing. That fragile imposter sister of hers doesn't even come close."

"No wonder Jameson didn't even bother showing up to the wedding. He's here making a grand entrance with Isabella instead. She's clearly the real deal. Maybe that fake heiress even stole Isabella's fiancé."

After that humiliating wedding, I became "the imposter."

If I'd never been switched into the Dawson family at birth, maybe I would've never met Jameson.

Maybe he would've married Isabella instead. And maybe I wouldn't have died such a pitiful death.

But all of that was just speculation now.

Paul looked like he wanted to say something, but Caitlyn shot him a warning glare. "In such a hurry to defend her? Still thinking about your mistress?"

Paul hated it when she brought that incident up. He fell silent immediately.

Jameson, with Isabella on his mind, tuned all of it out.

Despite my quiet fury, I could only listen in silence.

Not a single soul stood up for me.

How pathetic.

Just then, someone approached, and the chatter around us faded.

Amid a sea of tailored suits, Marcus stood out in his casual black fleece jacket and matching pants. Everyone knew how straightforward he was. He never tolerated gossip. So the room went quiet the moment he showed up.

Isabella smiled as he walked over. "Hi, Marcus. I'm Mia's sister, Isabella."

She was effortlessly friendly, ever since returning to the Dawson family.

Deliberately or not, she had edged closer and closer to Jameson, eventually winning him over. Even his close circle of friends praised her. Some even harbored secret crushes. Her charm was undeniable.

Marcus glanced at her outstretched hand. With just a faint nod, he acknowledged her.

Isabella clearly hadn't expected such indifference. She withdrew her hand without a change in expression, but her fingers curled slightly into her palm.

Marcus looked around Jameson, clearly searching for someone.

His gaze landed on Jameson. "Still no word from Mia?"

Jameson didn't notice Isabella's subtle change in expression. "Can you stop worrying about her and spare a little concern for me instead?"

Just the mention of Mia annoyed him. She was way too dramatic—not a single call in all these days. She might be cold to others, but she always treated him differently. Even if she wasn't one for chit-chat, she'd still call three times a day to ask if he'd eaten.

But now she'd been gone for so long. Not a single call. The more she stayed silent, the less he wanted to give in. His anger only grew.

Marcus said flatly, "You're eating and drinking just fine. You don't need my concern."

Jameson was about to retort when Hank's voice interrupted him. The old man, cane in hand, walked slowly to the center of the courtyard.

The Whitmore family, especially Hank, were devout Evangelicals.

A massive stone cross stood in the center of the courtyard, its shadow stretching long in the twilight. Carved with weathered verses, it exuded a solemn, ancient gravitas.

Hank stood before it, his back to the crucifix, stroking his white beard as he addressed the crowd with quiet authority. "Thank you all for coming to celebrate the Whitmore family's seventieth anniversary…"

I barely heard him.

I stood beside Jameson, but my gaze kept drifting upward—to the Christ figure nailed to the cross, its hollow eyes staring eternally into the distance.

Then, without warning, a chill seized me.

A tremor like divine judgment rattled my bones.

I took an involuntary step forward, pulled by something beyond reason.

That’s when a woman’s scream shattered the silence.

"Dear God—is that someone kneeling at the base?!"

My focus snapped downward.

And then I recoiled, a hand clapped over my mouth.

There, prostrate before the cross, was—

My own corpse.