Chapter 7

I stood frozen, watching with the weightless horror of a ghost as my headless body knelt in twisted reverence, its lifeless fingers curled around the base of the cross like a sinner begging for absolution.

My body—what was left of it—was in a terrible state. Rot had spread across much of the skin, and the stump of my neck was a gory mess of flesh and dried blood. It was a sight no one should have to witness, yet the room had already erupted into murmurs and whispers.

Marcus, seeing the scene, rushed over and pulled out his phone to call the police.

Jameson quickly stepped in front of Isabella, shielding her. "Isabella, don't look."

But Isabella remained calm. She patted the top of his head gently. "It's okay. Why should the living fear the dead?"

As she spoke, her gaze drifted toward my lifeless body, lips curling slightly at the corners.

Beneath the massive crucifix, a headless woman knelt in prayer. The contrast was grotesque and solemn all at once. Around us, the commotion grew louder. Phones were raised, cameras clicked. No one held back.

I didn't know when the killer had dumped my body here, or why they chose to do it so publicly at the Whitmore estate. But humiliation burned through me—not just because I'd been discarded like garbage, wrapped in a black plastic bag, but because underneath that, I was practically naked.

Overwhelmed, I stepped in front of the crowd, trying to shield myself, forgetting—I was no longer flesh, just a soul. Their camera flashes passed right through me.

Helplessly, I clutched at my corpse, aching to cry but unable to shed a single tear. All I could do was sob in anguish, a broken sound that didn't reach anyone's ears.

'Please… stop… don't take photos… I'm begging you…'

No one heard me. No one even noticed I was there.

Jameson kept shielding Isabella, worried the corpse might offend her sensibilities. But for the briefest moment, he thought he heard something—a woman's voice, sobbing, pleading don't…

He shook it off. It was just his imagination, he convinced himself.

Then, as he lifted his head again, something made his breath hitch. By the body, there was someone crouching.

A woman. Long hair cascading down her back, her figure faintly glowing white. She wept uncontrollably. The sound of it pierced straight through the heart.

And she looked just like—

"Mia," Jameson breathed, stepping forward instinctively.

But before he could reach her, Isabella tugged his arm.

"Jameson, where are you going?"

"I saw Mia," he said, eyes darting to the corpse. "She was crying. She must've been hurt."

Isabella followed his gaze. "There's nothing there but a body. I don't see Mia."

He turned back, confused. "But I swear I just saw…"

Words failed him.

Because when he looked again, the woman was gone.

Vanished.

Isabella looped her arm through his. "You've been working too much, and with Mia running away from home lately… It's no wonder you're imagining things."

Jameson stood in silence, staring at the body now surrounded by police tape and flashing lights. He couldn't shake the image from his mind—the woman who looked just like Mia.

Was it really just an illusion?

Once the body was removed and the scene secured, the guests were taken to the Vallencourt precinct to give statements. Only after that were they allowed to leave.

Even then, Jameson felt a gnawing discomfort in his chest.

He went to find Marcus, who was still busy with formalities. Since the body was discovered at the Whitmore family's ancestral home, Marcus wasn't allowed to directly handle the case—he could only assist the investigation.

When he finally emerged, he found Jameson leaning against a hallway trash bin, smoking. Judging by the pile of cigarette butts, he'd been waiting a while.

"What is it?" Marcus asked.

Jameson stubbed out the cigarette, voice hoarse. "Have they ID'd the headless woman yet?"

Marcus unscrewed the lid of his thermos and took a sip. "Since when do you care about that?"

"Just answer me. Have they?"

Seeing his friend's serious expression, Marcus straightened. "No. The body's badly decomposed. The autopsy's complicated, but the precinct's already requested help from a renowned forensic expert."

Jameson pressed on, "There's really no faster way to find out who she is?"

"They're comparing her with recent missing persons. There should be leads soon."

At that, Jameson seemed to exhale slightly. "Good."

Before Marcus could respond, Jameson turned and left without another word.

I watched him walk away, eyes dim. After all these years of loving him, even if he didn't recognize me, if he had just reacted with a fraction of the concern he always had for Isabella, he would've called the police the moment he saw that body.

But no.

All he did was ask a few questions, then leave.

'Jameson… have you really grown so indifferent to me?'

Maybe he was scared. Scared by the headless corpse.

He pulled out his phone to call me—then paused, as a familiar voice floated over.

"Jameson, can you take me home?" Night had fallen, and because she'd dressed lightly for the banquet, Isabella stood shivering in the cold wind.

His finger froze above the dial pad.

Noticing his hesitation, she asked softly, "What's wrong? Are you busy?"

"I was just going to call Mia. We've been married this long—she really should visit my grandpa."

A sudden gust of wind made her cough twice into her sleeve. "Then call her. Mia didn't grow up like me, scraping by on the streets. She's just a girl… I hope she hasn't run into trouble."

Her words, gentle and pitiful, once again tugged at his heart.

He knew life had been hard for Isabella before she returned to the Dawson family. She'd suffered.

As she turned to leave on her own, Jameson shrugged off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. Without a word, his arm wrapped around her.

"Isabella, as long as I'm around, I won't let you suffer again."

"Thank you, Jameson."

I'd thought, maybe for a second, that he was finally worried about me. But it was just my imagination.

He was nothing but a fool these days. The moment Isabella showed up, I vanished from his mind entirely.

That was her gift, I guess—playing the independent modern woman while effortlessly relying on men.

Jameson drove her back to the Dawson residence. When they arrived, as he leaned over to unbuckle her seatbelt, she kissed him lightly on the cheek and quickly got out of the car.

He sat there, stunned, watching her walk away.

And I… watched him, the corner of his mouth still curved stupidly upward.

If I had to put my feelings into words? Just one: speechless.

He didn't drive off right away. Instead, he pulled into a more secluded spot, lowered the window halfway, and stared blankly at our chat thread.

I peeked over.

Our last messages were from before the wedding.

I'd asked him to go ice skating with me.

He replied: [Okay, baby.]

Even though cracks had already formed in our relationship by then, we still kept up appearances.

When I caught him secretly keeping a pair of high heels Isabella had worn, he'd knelt and sworn to me—said he only admired her ability, nothing more.

And now? I die, and he dives into bed with her, no hesitation. Who knows how many times they've done it by now?

Men's promises mean nothing.

After a while, he posted a "friends only" update on his feed—just for me to see.

The photo was of him and Isabella, dining under the stars.

The message was clear. He probably thought I was ignoring his calls out of spite, and he wanted to provoke me into reaching out.

'Jameson… when will you finally believe I'm really, truly dead?'