After I Died, My Family Went Mad
My name is Elena, and I died at twenty-two. My parents forced me to take my foster sister’s place and traded me for a territorial alliance. My mate was the most volatile heir of the wolf packs.
Beaten bloody and fading fast, I made my eighth call for help.
At my adopted sister Seraphina’s birthday party, she played the recording of my final, groveling plea—and laughed.
My parents listened to those desperate calls with nothing but irritation, dismissing each one as theatrics, an inconvenience unworthy of their time.
My brother snarled over the phone, “Then just die already!”
So I did.
In the end, it was my three-year-old daughter who made the final call—using her smartwatch to video my mother, live-streaming the freezer where my severed head lay.
Now, my spirit watches from above as they all, one by one, begin to unravel.