Chapter 1

While he was out, I secretly slit my wrists in the bathtub. Blood stained the entire tub, looking like a large, vibrant flower. And Asher laughed and laughed, until tears started falling. But I knew his tears weren't for me—they were for his long-dead beloved. Six years ago, Olivia died in a car accident. After her death, her heart was transplanted into me. I had congenital heart disease since childhood, and only after the transplant did I gradually recover. Asher always believed I had schemed against his beloved, that I used underhanded means to harm the one he loved. He deliberately approached me to gain my trust. From an unknown ordinary person, he transformed into a business tycoon. After years of ups and downs, he finally gained the ability to rival my family. Even after marriage, he tormented me endlessly and even planned to make my whole family pay with their lives for his beloved. Fortunately, it was all over. I died the day before he was about to take action against me. And when he saw me again, I was already in a small box, reduced to a handful of ashes. "Give me back my child!" Just outside the funeral home, my father, who had always doted on me, had red-rimmed eyes. He rushed forward to hit Asher but was quickly restrained by bodyguards. Asher patted the urn in his hand. "Old man, your daughter's right here." He pressed his foot down on my father's shoulder, grinding it forcefully. "Someone like your daughter died too easily. She deserves to have her ashes scattered to the winds." My father collapsed to the ground, watching helplessly as Asher kicked my urn away, my ashes scattering everywhere. I knew Asher hated me, but I never thought his hatred would persist even after my death. Watching my ashes scatter, I still couldn't suppress the sorrow. But I couldn't cry—I was already dead. A wandering ghost has no tears. "You loved her so much? Why not join her in death? At least she'll have company on the journey to the hail." My father slapped his thigh, pointing at Asher. "You'll regret this. Mark my words, you'll regret it." "I'll never regret it." With that, Asher stepped over my ashes and left the funeral home without looking back. My father knelt on the ground, desperately trying to gather my ashes, aging twenty years in an instant. I drifted like a wisp of smoke, following Asher. When he got into the black Bentley, traces of my ashes clung to the leather seats, like scattered grayish-white salt. The driver handed him a wet wipe, but he swatted it away. Embers from the glass ashtray singed the carpet, leaving a charred hole. "To the cemetery," he loosened his tie, his Adam's apple bobbing, his knuckles rapping against his knee. Olivia's gravestone was adorned with white roses, morning dew still clinging to the petals. Asher crouched down, his fingers tracing the photo embedded in the stone. It was an old picture from five years ago—a girl with a high ponytail, smiling to reveal two small canine teeth. "Olivia, I've avenged you," he said, pulling a velvet box from his inner suit pocket. Inside was a diamond ring. "This was meant for you, but now..." His voice trailed off as he clenched the box, his knuckles turning white. "She didn't deserve your heart. Even her ashes would defile your resting place." I hovered behind him, watching as he tossed the ring I'd worn for three years into the trash. It was our first wedding anniversary when he'd slipped it onto my ring finger, smiling as he said, "I'll upgrade it to a bigger one someday." At the time, I thought it was a promise. Later, I realized it was just another prop in his scheme. As dusk settled over the cemetery, his phone rang. It was his assistant, voice trembling. "Mr. Blake, the Gray family... Mr. Gray had a sudden cerebral hemorrhage. He's in critical condition." He crushed the white rose in his hand, thorns piercing his palm and drawing blood. "He won't die." The hospital hallway reeked of disinfectant, even more pungent than the funeral home. I saw my father lying in the hospital bed, an oxygen tube in his nose, the monitor's waves fluctuating erratically. My mother hunched over the bedside, her hair half-white overnight, her sobs escaping through her fingers like a choked cat's cry. Late at night, outside the ICU, Asher leaned against the wall, smoking. The smoke blurred his face, reminding me of a rainy night seven years ago. Back then, he was just a poor student, crouching under the plane tree outside our family's villa, holding an injured stray cat in his arms. Raindrops on his eyelashes sparkled like crushed diamonds. "Miss Clara, please save it," he said, looking up with eyes brighter than stars. I later learned that the cat had been Olivia's. Every step he took toward me was built on carefully woven lies.