Chapter 2

Denise was Mom's foster sister.

Two years ago, after Grandma fell ill, Mom—soft-hearted as always—took Dad and me to visit her.

From that day forward, Denise latched onto Dad and refused to let go.

She didn't stop at manipulating Mom with Grandma's illness to force her way into our home.

Once she moved in, she began accusing Mom of hitting and abusing her, creating a rift between my parents. They fought constantly.

And just a year ago, she took things further—using her depression as a weapon to steal Dad away entirely.

Even when my heart condition worsened and I was hospitalized, Dad didn't come to see me. Mom would tell me he was busy with work, that he had important things to handle.

But I knew better.

He was with Denise, taking care of her. After all, Denise had depression—she was so fragile, so prone to suicide attempts, that she was considered more delicate than me, his daughter born with congenital heart disease.

That injustice gnawed at me.

So when Mom broke the news that my heart condition had become critical—that without surgery, I would die—I lost control.

I screamed, throwing tantrums, telling her I wouldn't go through with the operation unless Dad came to be with me.

I shouted at her, blaming her for everything. I even said she was the reason I lost Dad too.

Mom, worn down by my outbursts, finally promised to bring Dad back to be by my side for the surgery. What I didn't expect was how she would do it.

She begged. She knelt in front of Denise, pleading, saying she was wrong, begging her to give Dad back to me.

I didn't mean to witness it—I was hiding in the backseat of her car. I had snuck out of the hospital just for fun.

But when I saw Mom there, on her knees, bowing her head to that horrible homewrecker, crying and pleading, I regretted everything in an instant.

Mom hated Denise with every fiber of her being.

She hated Denise for stealing our grandparents' love, for blackmailing them into locking her away, nearly costing her the chance to take her college entrance exams.

She hated Denise for taking Dad from us.

I had known what it meant to feel heartache ever since I was little. But that day, seeing Mom bow before Denise, begging her with such humility—that was the moment I truly understood what real heartache was.

Tears blurred my vision as I struggled to open the car door and stumbled out. I wanted to take Mom away, far from this nightmare.

I wanted to tell her that I didn't need Dad anymore, that I didn't need him to be there for my surgery. We could survive without him.

I hadn't made it more than a few steps when I saw it—Denise, standing on the balcony not far ahead, had already knocked Mom to the ground.

My heart pounded as I watched, helpless. Denise's stiletto heel dug into Mom's face, grinding down with vicious cruelty.

"Nicole," Denise sneered. "You really think your heart-diseased daughter is worthy of Ethan coming back to see her? Let her die! I'm telling you, I'm not just going to steal your parents and your husband, I'll make sure your daughter dies a miserable death too."

Each one of her words was more hateful than the last. "Don't think being a doctor makes you untouchable. You'll always be nothing more than my slave."

Mom snapped. Right then and there, something inside her broke. She struggled to her feet, wild with rage, lunging at Denise.

"Denise, if you dare lay a hand on my daughter, I'll kill you!"

The words tore from Mom's throat as she slapped Denise across the face, hard. They were locked in a vicious fight, Mom clawing at Denise's hair, her screams filled with fury and agony.

Desperation flooded my veins, and I forgot all about Mom's warnings not to run.

I had to help Mom.

But before I could reach them, they both tumbled over the edge of the balcony, rolling as they fell, crashing onto the ground below.

When I saw Mom lying there, blood everywhere, completely still, my heart seized in my chest, and a violent spasm ripped through me. Pain shot through my body, nearly paralyzing me.

But just when everything seemed lost, Dad appeared.

He charged toward them like a wild beast, and for a brief moment, I thought he had come to save Mom. I thought he was there to help her, to pull her back from the brink of death.

But when he reached the bottom of the stairs, he didn't even glance at Mom. Not once.

Instead, he hurried to Denise's side, frantically lifting her into his arms.

"Dee, are you okay? I'll take you to the hospital. I'm taking you right now." he said urgently.

Then, he carried her away, rushing toward the garage, leaving Mom behind—broken and bleeding on the ground.

Pain, grief, and despair clawed at my chest all at once, fierce and unrelenting. Especially when I saw Dad carrying Denise past me.

He didn't even notice me, curled up on the ground, too weak to make a sound, tears streaming down my face as I lay there.

The ache in my chest exploded into something unbearable, a sharp twist of agony that made my whole body seize and convulse.

Through my blurry, tear-filled vision, I could just make out Mom, lying in a pool of her own blood not far away.

I wanted to scream, but the only sound that escaped me was a choking sob, my body shaking uncontrollably with the effort.

When I opened my eyes again, everything had changed.

I wasn't in my body anymore. I was floating, watching from above as Mom sat frozen beside my lifeless body, her face pale, her eyes wide with shock.

The doctor stood next to her, his expression heavy with sorrow.

"Dr. Richie, I'm so sorry," the doctor said softly. "If your hand hadn't been injured, there might have been a chance to save Mary. But... this was her fate."

The words barely left his lips before Mom's cries tore through the room, raw and piercing, as if her very soul was being ripped apart. She clung to my clothes and wept, "Mary, I'm sorry! It's all my fault! I killed you!"

Her sobs echoed in my ears, breaking my heart over and over again. I rushed toward her, wanting to wrap my arms around her and tell her it wasn't true, that I didn't blame her.

"Mom, it's not your fault. I should've known Dad didn't love me. It was my stubbornness that cost me my life. It was my fault, not yours. Please don't cry, Mom. Please."

But my words never reached her. Just like when I was alive, I couldn't comfort her. I couldn't now either.

After Dad left, Mom stumbled toward the kitchen. She picked up a fruit knife with hands that were too steady, too practiced. Without hesitation, she plunged the blade into her thigh, the tip slicing through flesh with a sharp, precise motion.

Blood welled up, dark and vibrant, spilling from the wound and dripping to the floor, one drop at a time.

I watched, horrified, as she stood there, blood trickling down her leg, staining the ground beneath her. My whole body shook with sobs.

This was the thirty-ninth time since my death that she had taken that knife and stabbed herself in the thigh.