Chapter 3: The Dead Man's Request

Sharon was certain Ethan Pierce had died.

She had attended his funeral only hours ago.

She'd cried the loudest, stolen every eye in the chapel, and eventually collapsed from what everyone assumed was overwhelming grief.

She remembered every second of it.

So how—

How could Ethan now be sitting across from her, bathed in the amber glow of the setting sun?

The golden light split his face cleanly down the bridge of his nose. One eye shimmered like polished amber, while the other remained hidden in shadow, impossibly dark.

If someone told her he was a ghost, she'd believe it.

Cold sweat broke out across Sharon's back.

She suddenly regretted every dramatic line she'd shouted at the funeral.

"Take me with you."

What kind of idiot said things like that?

Apparently, one whose ex-boyfriend actually showed up afterward.

Seeing her frozen in silence, Ethan leaned forward.

Closer.

Closer.

Until only inches separated their noses.

Sharon instinctively sucked in a breath and held it.

A faint smirk tugged at his lips before a low chuckle escaped him.

The same infuriating laugh.

The one that always sounded as though he controlled every situation before anyone else even understood what was happening.

Her thoughts spiraled wildly.

Is this how ghosts kill people?

Does he drain my life force?

Am I about to die because I couldn't keep my mouth shut?

She desperately wanted to believe she was dreaming.

After all, she had no idea where she was.

Only now did she begin taking in her surroundings.

The room was spotless.

Fresh white walls.

Modern office furniture.

A large desk covered neatly with documents and office supplies.

The fading sunlight painted one half of the room warm gold while the other remained cool and gray.

With Ethan sitting precisely where light met darkness...

...it looked almost like the border between the living world and the underworld.

Silence filled every corner.

Too silent.

Too unreal.

Ethan leaned back into his chair.

"What?"

His voice was calm.

"Too scared to speak after seeing me?"

The sound snapped Sharon back to reality.

Lying helplessly on the sofa wasn't going to save her.

Whether he was human or ghost, she couldn't simply surrender.

She shot upright and scrambled into the farthest corner of the couch, pressing herself against the backrest as though she could disappear into it.

Over the past four months she'd spent countless hours reading paranormal forums.

One thing kept appearing in nearly every ghost story.

People who died suddenly often didn't realize they were dead.

Maybe...

Just maybe...

Ethan hadn't figured it out yet.

Swallowing nervously, she asked in a tiny voice,

"...Do you remember dying?"

Ethan idly rolled the bottle of eye drops between his fingers.

The amusement disappeared from his face.

"So I remember."

His eyes cooled.

"I was lying in the coffin."

"Then I heard you begging me to take you with me."

"So..."

He shrugged lazily.

"Here I am."

Sharon's fingers tightened around the blanket.

Her palms were icy with sweat.

She'd completely forgotten that Ethan had already been cremated.

The room was so quiet she could hear her own heartbeat pounding inside her ears.

This was difficult.

Very difficult.

She took a shaky breath and tried reasoning with him.

"Everyone has their own fate."

"I'm... really sorry for what happened to you."

"But you're dead now."

"You should move on and be reincarnated."

"We belong to different worlds."

"It's really... inappropriate for us to stay together."

One of Ethan's brows lifted.

"Oh?"

"I don't see what's inappropriate."

"I think it's perfectly fine."

"And honestly..."

"I don't want to be reincarnated."

"I'd rather stay with you."

Sharon nearly choked.

Trying to reason with a ghost had officially become the stupidest thing she'd ever attempted.

Annoyance flared inside her—

Only to vanish the instant she met his eyes.

She wasn't brave enough to argue with the dead.

Not this dead man.

"I don't want that..." she muttered under her breath.

Their relationship overseas had never been serious—at least not for her.

She'd been the one to suggest breaking up.

But Ethan had agreed immediately.

Without hesitation.

Without asking why.

Without even trying to stop her.

In that instant, every question she'd wanted to ask died inside her.

She'd wasted years dating a complete fraud.

Ethan glanced at his watch.

"You slept longer than I expected."

"There isn't much time."

His expression turned businesslike.

"I need your help."

Sharon almost laughed.

Help?

After faking his death—assuming this wasn't some supernatural nightmare—he still had the nerve to ask favors?

She wanted nothing more than to kick him.

Unfortunately...

She wasn't in a position to offend someone who might be a ghost.

Or worse—

Alive.

"What do you need?"

"Visit my family in the next couple of days."

"You don't have to do anything complicated."

"Just cry."

"The same way you did today."

"You seem rather talented at it."

Sharon's eyes widened.

"That wasn't acting!"

"I was genuinely heartbroken!"

Ethan smiled faintly.

"Of course you were."

She pointed at her swollen eyes.

"I cried so much last night my eyes are still puffy!"

She even rubbed beneath them dramatically.

As though fresh tears might appear on command.

"...Do you have any last wishes besides that?" she asked cautiously.

Before Ethan could answer—

The doorknob rattled violently.

"Huh?"

"Why won't this open?"

Chloe's worried voice came from outside.

"Sharon?"

"Are you in there?"

Ethan crossed the room in two strides.

Bracing both hands on either side of Sharon, he leaned down until his voice brushed her ear.

"Tell her..."

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Sharon!"

Sharon forced herself to stay calm.

"I'm okay!"

"I just woke up."

"I feel a little dizzy."

"I think I'm just hungry."

"Could you bring me something to eat?"

"Oh my God."

"I'll be right back!"

Chloe hurried away.

Only after her footsteps disappeared did Ethan straighten.

The oppressive feeling eased slightly.

Then realization struck Sharon like lightning.

He wasn't dead.

He had never been dead.

Her blood ran cold.

That meant...

He had seen everything.

The social media post she'd intentionally left visible to him.

Her performance at his funeral.

Every fake tear.

Every outrageous declaration.

She wanted to smash her head against a wall.

"There isn't much time."

Ethan adjusted his cufflinks.

"Remember what I said?"

Sharon nodded rapidly.

"I remember."

"I won't forget."

He bent down once more.

One final warning.

"You won't tell anyone you saw me today..."

"...will you?"

She immediately raised four fingers in an exaggerated oath.

"Of course not."

"You have my word."

Satisfied, Ethan walked toward the black office desk.

From its surface he picked up what looked horrifyingly like...

A human face.

Hair.

Skin.

Features.

The lifeless silicone mask sagged grotesquely in his hands.

Sharon gasped and clamped both hands over her mouth.

Without the slightest hesitation, Ethan pulled the mask over his head.

Seconds later—

The breathtakingly handsome Ethan Pierce disappeared.

Standing before her instead was an utterly ordinary middle-aged businessman.

The disguise was flawless.

Sharon stared in disbelief.

"...What is this?"

"Mission: Impossible?"

"You think you're Tom Cruise now?"

Ethan only smiled.

Before leaving, he brushed the air beside one of her diamond earrings.

"You look beautiful today."

Then he opened the door...

...and disappeared.

The room stayed silent for several long seconds.

Finally Sharon exploded.

"Ugh!"

"How unlucky!"

"Who wants your compliment? Stop flattering yourself!"

The office door suddenly swung open.

She snapped her mouth shut.

Chloe rushed in carrying fruit.

"Oh, thank goodness."

"You scared me to death."

"I could only find these."

She handed Sharon a bright red apple before gently wiping the sweat from her forehead.

"You've been sweating so much."

"Low blood sugar?"

No.

Pure terror.

Sharon stared blankly at the apple.

"...This isn't..."

"Ethan's funeral offering?"

Chloe nodded innocently.

"Yes."

Sharon: "..."

She suddenly wasn't hungry anymore.

Chapter 4: A Bargain with the Ghost

Sharon categorized Ethan Pierce into a very specific class of men: those blessed with a striking face and utterly devoid of soul.

He had the Ivy-League pedigree, the sharp mind, and the impeccable manners, but those were merely a polished façade he wore for society. Sharon had been unlucky enough to see the man behind the mask. What kind of genuinely refined gentleman broke into someone’s house in the dead of night?

He was still wearing the dark suit from the funeral—a mass-produced brand he would never normally touch—which, combined with the balaclava he’d been wearing earlier, made it easy for him to disappear into a crowd. But now he had shed the mask. Even in off-the-rack clothing, the sheer, ruthless presence inherent in his bones was impossible to disguise.

Sharon’s body reacted before her brain could process. Shaken by terror, her legs buckled, sending her slumping onto the floor. Two seconds of pure mental blackout later, instinct kicked in. Her hand scrambled frantically behind her, grabbing whatever her fingers touched first, and hurled it straight at the man lounging on her sofa.

The white silk shirt she had just been wearing landed right over Ethan’s head.

Sharon scrambled to her feet, darting toward the bed. She yanked a camisole dress over her head, but feeling far too exposed, grabbed a gray zip-up hoodie off a chair, pulled it on, and zipped it all the way up to her chin.

Beneath the silk, the intimate scent of her perfume washed over Ethan’s senses—a rich, velvety floral-woodsy fragrance that instantly yanked him back to lazy, sun-drenched afternoons in her garden, tangled in her arms.

He didn't even need to reach up. The delicate silk slid smoothly off his head, brushing against his cheek like a whisper before pooling in a soft, rumpled mess of white between his thighs.

To his right, Sharon had armored herself and fallen into a defensive stance, her eyes flashing with deep distrust.

The room was dimly lit, the curtains half-drawn just as she had left them. Only the faint, amber glow of dusk seeped inside. They were both shrouded in shadows, watching each other through the narrow corridor of light separating them.

Ethan’s gaze lingered on her oversized gray hoodie. He offered her a mild, infuriatingly pleasant smile. "You're back. Did Ryan and Chloe drop you off?"

Sharon took a deep, steadying breath. "What do you want, Ethan?"

"I recall our conversation was cut short earlier, interrupted by Chloe," he said smoothly. "Shall we pick up where we left off?"

"I already agreed to your terms!" Sharon’s voice pitched higher than she intended. "What more could you possibly want from me?"

Ethan knew her all too well. She was terrified. Whenever Sharon felt cornered, she bristled like a cat, raising her voice to fake a position of strength. Knowing what he was about to ask, Ethan deliberately softened his posture, lowering his tone into something dangerously gentle.

"Given the tragic tribute you posted on social media earlier... I’m just not entirely convinced you’re actually going to help me."

Sharon felt a sudden wave of heat rush to her cheeks, a quiet pang of guilt hitting her chest. She had genuinely thought he was dead—who on earth faked their own death, anyway?

"And there's one more thing," Ethan continued, his tone shifting into something almost conversational. "Call it a plea. I'm currently homeless, Sharon. I need a place to stay."

Silence descended upon the bedroom, thick and suffocating. Sharon narrowed her eyes, processing the sound of his voice before repeating the words back to him.

"You need me to take you in?"

Then again, where else could a "dead man" go?

Ever since he returned to the country, he had taken over his family’s enterprise, becoming the youngest corporate titan in the city with luxury properties scattered everywhere. But now that his death had been announced to the world, those high-rise penthouses were completely off-limits.

Sharon had never paid much attention to his corporate affairs. After he took the helm, they saw less of each other, and she had little idea what kind of shark tank he was swimming in. But seeing him now—forced to fake his own death to hide his tracks, reduced to begging his ex-girlfriend for a roof over his head—felt like cosmic retribution. What went around came around, and Ethan Pierce had finally gotten his karma.

It was the ultimate opportunity to kick him while he was down. If she kept him here, she would hold absolute control over his whereabouts. If she ever decided she wanted him gone for good, she could expose him with a single phone call.

That brief calculation eased the tension in her neck and shoulders. At least for now, she held the upper hand. Still, harboring a dangerous man like Ethan was an invitation for trouble.

She wavered, weighing her options.

Ethan nodded, his blue-chip composure intact. "Yes. I need you to shelter me."

Resting his chin on his hand, the corner of his mouth quirked up as he watched her mull it over. His gaze drifted past her gray hoodie to the makeshift memorial altar she had built for him near the window.

And she claimed she didn't care about me anymore when we broke up.

Unaware of his arrogant inner monologue, Sharon was running through a high-stakes mental chess game. Taking him in was a gamble. If she won, she got a front-row seat to watch the arrogant Ethan Pierce live like a stray dog. If she lost... well, she refused to lose. She had to take control early.

It was a gamble for Ethan, too. Instead of seeking help from his loyal inner circle, he had come straight to his ex-girlfriend. It was practically a death wish.

Sharon made her decision. She would keep him close. At least under her roof, she could keep her eyes on him.

"Fine. But we need ground rules."

"I'm all ears." Ethan gestured with a chivalrous sweep of his hand. "Proceed."

"First, I am giving you a place to stay, but I am not feeding you. Figure out your own meals. Second, you sleep in the storage closet inside my bedroom. At night, I'm locking you in—for my own safety. Third, I reserve the right to expose your 'death' whenever I see fit. And finally, as long as you live under my roof, you obey my rules. Period."

Ethan chuckled softly. "That sounds like four rules, darling."

Sharon didn't care about the count. As long as he was under her roof, her safety was non-negotiable. "Whatever. Agree to it, or I start screaming right now."

Ethan feigned deep interest in her terms. His voice was soft, but the underlying tone left no room for argument.

"Counter-offer. First, you shelter me and feed me. I’ll pay you whatever price you name. Second, I'll sleep in the storage closet, but you don't lock me in—that's for my safety. Third, you cannot expose the truth under any circumstances, not even to your dear friend Chloe."

Before he could even finish his sentence, Sharon opened her mouth to scream. But before a sound could fully escape her throat, Ethan calmly interjected: "Deal."

The scream died in her throat. A fleeting look of triumph crossed Sharon's face. Rule number four: You obey me. He was living under her roof now, and she was going to teach him how to play by her rules.

Seeing that he wasn't entirely fearless brought her lingering panic down a notch. Sharon took a couple of steps back and sank onto the edge of her bed, letting her trembling legs finally rest.

Ethan was clearly unsatisfied with the outcome, but he had no leverage to push further. He leaned back, tilting his head. "So, if you're not feeding me, how do you expect me to maintain my vital signs?"

"You managed to break into my house without making a sound," Sharon said coldly, her courage bolstering now that she held something over him. "Are you telling me you can't sneak out to scavenge for food?"

Reaching beneath her dress, she pulled out her phone from her back waistline and hit play.

The speaker immediately played back the conversation they had just shared. Sharon let it run for a second or two before hitting pause and slipping the phone safely back into her pocket.

"I have the evidence right here. Don't try any clever tricks."

Ethan lowered his head, a low, quiet chuckle rumbling deep in his chest. The vibration was tantalizingly deep, undeniably handsome.

"Recording our conversation... smart girl, Sharon. I won't play tricks. As you wish, I'll abide by rule number four. I'll be good."

His amused tone irritated her to no end. Sharon clutched her pocket, her eyes flashing with genuine anger as her voice hardened. "Cut the sweet talk, Ethan! Don't take my words lightly—your life is literally in my hands right now."

Ethan arched an eyebrow, accepting her threat with a slow, leisurely nod. "I wouldn't dare. Rest assured."

Sharon glared at him for a moment longer before rising to her feet. "I'm going to take a shower now. You can go out and find something to eat, but do not touch my things. And do not come anywhere near the bathroom."

"Understood."

Before stepping into the bathroom, Sharon locked the main bedroom door, grabbed a change of clothes, and shut herself inside.

Ethan remained on the single armchair in her reading nook. Hearing the bathroom door close and the lock turn, his hand finally slid down to rest on the soft white silk shirt draped over his lap, his long fingers gently caressing the smooth fabric.

Sharon finished her shower in record time. Without even drying her hair, she darted back into the bedroom to check if her unwanted guest was still there.

Ethan hadn't moved. He sat in the exact same spot, resting his jaw on his palm, staring blankly into space. Her silk shirt was still resting across his lap.

Sharon took three swift steps forward and snatched the garment away with a sharp pull. The fabric sliced through the air with a soft swoosh, sending a cool breeze across his skin.

Ethan pulled himself out of his trance, offering a subtle shoulder shrug to signal his innocence.

Sharon huffed, returning to the bathroom to dry her hair. The loud, monotonous whir of the hairdryer did little to calm her spiraling thoughts.

She hadn't turned on the bedroom lights, and by the time she finished, the room had plunged into near-total darkness. Only the soft glow of the garden lights down below bled through the crack in her curtains. Sharon wasn't afraid of the dark; her night vision was sharp, and she usually preferred the soft ambiance of a single floor lamp when she was home.

As if reading her mind, Ethan reached over and switched on the floor lamp beside his chair just as she walked out of the short hallway connecting the bathroom.

Sharon froze mid-step, her eyes darting toward him. Her damp, pitch-black hair framed a freshly washed, makeup-free face, making her pale skin look almost luminous. She looked strikingly pure, almost ethereal in the dim light.

"Did I ask for your help?" Sharon snapped. "That's my lamp."

She turned and headed toward her vanity.

Unbothered by her sharpness, Ethan lazily raised a hand and turned the lamp off.

Darkness enveloped the room once more. A second later, Sharon’s toe collided hard with the wooden leg of the vanity table. Pain shot up her leg, and she collapsed onto the floor with a muffled gasp.

"Ethan! Are you completely insane?!" she cried out, clutching her throbbing toe and glaring toward his corner.

Right then, a sharp knock sounded at her bedroom door.

Sharon’s heart leaped into her throat. Instead of acting normal, her instincts kicked in—she slapped a hand over her own mouth and whipped her head around to look at Ethan in sheer panic.

Compared to her, Ethan’s face was a picture of cool, unbothered calm.

"Sharon, sweetie? Dinner's ready."

It was Auntie Chen, the live-in housekeeper. When she first started working here, she used to call Sharon "Miss," and it had taken Sharon days of persistent nagging to get her to drop the formality.

"Okay! I'll be right down!" Sharon called back, forcing her voice to sound natural.

"Alright, dear," Auntie Chen replied, her footsteps fading down the staircase.

Sharon rubbed her aching toe, pushed herself up, and shot a venomous glare toward Ethan's dark corner. "Turn the lamp back on, you absolute idiot."

Ethan clicked the switch, putting on a look of total innocence. "My apologies. You explicitly told me not to touch your lamp."

Sharon glared at him, grabbed a bottle of lotion from her vanity, slapped it haphazardly onto her face, and slipped out of the room, shutting the door tightly behind her.

Auntie Chen’s culinary skills were top-tier. Seeing Sharon in such high spirits earlier that morning, she assumed there was good news to celebrate and had specially prepared Sharon’s favorite dish: scallion-braised crab.

Unfortunately, Sharon’s head was pounding so hard she could barely swallow a bite.

Mistaking her silence for dissatisfaction, Auntie Chen waited until Sharon set her chopsticks down before asking anxiously, "Was the food not to your liking today?"

Sharon snapped out of her daze, waving her hands defensively. "No, no! It's delicious, Auntie Chen. I'm just... exhausted. Just thinking about some work stuff."

Auntie Chen smiled sympathetically. She knew her young employer was prone to sudden bouts of deep distraction—talking to herself or staring off into space was nothing new. She cleared the plates without pressing further.

Sharon lingered in the living room for as long as she could, dreading the moment she’d have to go back upstairs and face Ethan again.

When she finally returned, he was still sitting in the reading nook. It was as if he’d been glued to the armchair—motionless, silent, like a high-end display mannequin.

Sharon spent twenty minutes clearing out her walk-in storage closet before calling him over.

She used to use the small space as a gaming setup, but after selling her custom rig, it had turned into a graveyard for random clutter.

Ethan rose and stepped up behind her. His broad-shouldered frame cast a towering shadow over her, bringing an immediate, suffocation-level pressure into the tiny room.

"You sleep here."

Sharon unrolled a thin bamboo cooling mat onto the floor—a summertime staple.

Asking an ex for a favor was bad enough, but her hospitality was downright arctic. Ethan stared down at the narrow, single-person bamboo mat on the hardwood floor and let out a dry, amused laugh.

Before he could speak, Sharon cut him off cold. "Don't like it? The front door is that way."

Ethan’s sharp facial features showed no trace of anger. Instead, his gaze softened into a dangerous kind of indulgence. "Fine. I'll sleep here."

In a rare moment of mercy, Sharon let him use her bathroom to wash up. She even went to her walk-in closet to dig up a set of clothes for him. Who could have guessed that after all this time, his clothes were still tucked away in her house?

She stared at the forgotten pile in the corner. She had stumbled upon them just last night while clearing her wardrobe and had planned to throw them out today. Instead, they were coming in handy.

A loud, tropical Hawaiian print shirt paired with a basic white tee and sweatpants.

They were crumpled and wrinkled beyond belief. Sharon gave them a harsh shake, tossing the wilted fabrics directly into his arms.

This time, Ethan surprisingly didn't say a word. He took the clothes and silently retreated into the bathroom.

At ten o'clock sharp, Sharon locked Ethan inside the storage closet, climbed onto her bed, and pulled the duvet over her head.

Exhaustion finally caught up with her, and the moment her head hit the pillow, she sank into a deep sleep.

Hours later, Sharon was jolted awake by a faint, persistent scratching at the door, accompanied by muffled, painful groans.

She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes as she pin-pointed the sound. It was coming from the storage closet.

Wondering what kind of drama Ethan was staging now, Sharon grabbed the key, unlocked the door, and pulled it open.

Ethan was slumping against the far wall, one hand clutched tightly over his abdomen, his forehead slick with a heavy layer of cold sweat.

The house was equipped with a central climate control system, and the room was perfectly cool. Sharon couldn't understand why he was dripping with sweat.

"What's wrong with you?" Sharon tapped his calf with the toe of her slipper.

Ethan let out a low, pained grunt, forcing his head up to look at her. He rasped something under his breath, but his voice was too faint for her to hear.

"What did you say? Speak up," Sharon said, crouching down beside him.

This time, his trembling, threadbare voice came through clearly:

"I'm... starving."

Chapter 5: Late-Night Ransom

Sharon knew Ethan had a history of stomach trouble, though it had never been anything too severe. Besides, in this day and age, almost every young professional wrestled with some kind of minor health issue; finding someone completely healthy was the real rarity.

She harbored a strong suspicion that his current state was the result of exhaustion from playing dead—living like a fugitive, braving the elements, and missing meals left and right until his stomach finally gave out.

How hilarious. Imagine passing out from the sheer physical labor of pretending to be dead.

Sharon remained crouched beside him, studying his sharp side profile. His eyes were half-lidded, his jaw tight as he tried to ride out the spasm of pain. Despite remembering how cold and unfeeling he could be, she still didn't want him breathing his last breath in her house.

"Can you move?" Sharon asked.

"Yeah." He looked up at her, his dark eyes glistening with a sudden, vulnerable wetness.

"Come on. I'll help you over to the couch."

His body was heavy—whether he was genuinely unable to support his weight or just playing it up, she couldn't tell. He leaned his entire upper body against her, forcing Sharon to stagger sideways until her shoulder hit the wall.

The crisp, cool scent of his cologne washed over her, a familiar heat mingling with the subtle fragrance of her own body wash on his skin. For a terrifying second, Sharon almost tumbled back into the trap of her memories.

She quickly braced herself against the wall, stood up straight, and hauled him over to the single armchair in her reading nook.

By the time he sank into the cushions, Sharon was drenched in a fine sheen of sweat.

She pulled a few tissues from her vanity and shoved them into his palm. "Wipe your face. I'm going downstairs to get you some medicine and food."

Her home first-aid kit was always fully stocked. Lately, her own irregular sleep schedule and anxiety had triggered a bout of mild gastritis, so there should still be medication left over.

Grabbing a box of Omeprazole and Hydrotalcite, she stowed the rest of the kit, closing the cabinet before slipping into the kitchen.

Sharon had known her way around a stove since she was a little girl. Back then, her parents would frequently leave in the dead of night to haul inventory, spending their days managing the storefront. It fell on Sharon to take care of her younger brother, so she learned to cook basic home-style dishes. They weren't gourmet by any stretch of the imagination, but they were edible. Cooking, after all, required a natural gift she simply didn't possess.

She had no intention of firing up the stove in the middle of the night. Instead, she boiled a pot of water and prepared a bowl of premium instant ramen for him.

While waiting for the kettle to whistle, Auntie Chen opened her bedroom door, rubbing her sleepy eyes. Rolling up her sleeves, she asked if Sharon was still hungry and offered to whip up a proper late-night meal.

Sharon palmed the blister packs of stomach medication on the marble counter, casually sliding them into the pocket of her nightgown.

"No need, Auntie Chen. I'm just pulling an all-nighter and felt like a bowl of instant noodles. Go back to sleep."

Knowing better than to overstep, Auntie Chen nodded politely and returned to her quarters.

Sharon waited for the noodles to steep before heading back upstairs. Halfway up the flight, she paused, considering leaving a subtle instruction for the housekeeper, but realized it would only look suspicious. She turned and continued up the stairs, slipping quietly back into her bedroom.

Ethan was leaning his head back against the armchair, his brow furrowed tightly in apparent discomfort. In the low light, the sharp angle of his jaw looked even more pronounced.

Sharon set the steaming bowl of noodles onto the low coffee table in front of him and gave his shoulder a light nudge. He didn't wake up immediately. Instead, his hand shot out, wrapping tightly around her wrist as a faint murmur slipped from his lips: "Sharon... don't go..."

Back when everyone else called her Shar, Ethan had insisted on calling her Sharon—or his own private pet names—claiming he refused to address her like the rest of the world did.

The brief flash of memory hit her like a splash of cold water. Sharon yanked her hand back, breaking his grip, and delivered a sharp slap to his shoulder.

That did the trick. He opened his eyes, his cold, piercing gaze slightly out of focus.

"Take your medicine." Sharon tossed the pills onto the table, stepping past him to flick on the main overhead lights.

The room flooded with brilliant, unforgiving light.

Ethan sat up, picked up the blister packs, inspected the labels, and obediently swallowed the pills with a sip of water.

Sharon nudged the bowl toward him. "Eat this."

Ethan almost pointed out that stomach medication usually required a thirty-minute grace period before eating, but then remembered he was only pretending to be sick. It didn't matter. He quietly picked up the chopsticks and finished every last drop of the noodles, even draining the broth.

Sharon took the empty container down to the kitchen trash, returning to open the bedroom window to let the lingering food aroma air out.

"Those noodles weren't free," she said, leaning against the windowsill. "You're freeloading under my roof, using my resources, and expecting me to play nurse. It's time you paid up. That bowl of instant ramen costs a thousand dollars. Pay up."

Ethan looked at her face in silent amusement. She had the delicate, angelic features of a saint, yet the moment she opened her mouth, she sounded like a highway robber.

"Fair enough," Ethan murmured smoothly. "I'll pay you. Just give me a couple of days to draft a promissory note, and I'll settle the bill."

"You're legally a dead man," Sharon said, staring straight into his eyes. "What good is a promissory note from a ghost?"

Ethan played along, unabashed. "Then what do you suggest?"

She had dumped him without a second thought, leaving him completely in the dark about her reasons, and now she was treating him with utter coldness—forcing him to eat the very instant noodles he detested most.

Sharon took a look at the off-the-rack suit he was wearing. Guessing he was probably stripped of his liquid assets for the time being, she figured it was best to use him, get the job done, and kick him out as soon as possible. Once he was gone, she could anonymously leak the news of his fake death to the media. The chaos that would unleash... just thinking about it gave her a rush of satisfaction.

What was a thousand-dollar bowl of noodles and a few nights' lodging anyway? She would consider it charity for a beggar.

Having rationalized it, Sharon leaned back against the sofa cushions. "Forget it. You're broke anyway. Consider it a gift from me."

She waved her hand with grand generosity. "Tomorrow, I'm heading over to your family's estate to put on a grand performance at your memorial. I'll report back when I'm done. Once you're finished eating, get back to your closet so I can lock up."

Cold, distant, and completely unbothered.

Sharon held her chin high, looking for all the world like a dog owner about to lock her unruly pet back into its crate.

Ethan clutched his stomach, his dark eyes downcast, his posture slumping slightly as he let his voice drop into a soft, vulnerable register. "Can I stay here a little longer? The floor in that closet is really uncomfortable."

Sharon was already running on empty. Her eyes narrowed into drowsy slits, her eyelids heavy as lead. She simply didn't have the energy left to trade barbs with him tonight.

"I promise I won't touch you," Ethan added softly.

Sharon gave him a suspicious glare before rising to switch off the main lights.

Her bed was positioned a distance away from his armchair, though from Ethan's angle, he had an unobstructed view of everything she did.

"Ethan..." Sharon sat on the edge of the mattress, pointing a warning finger in his direction.

Ethan raised both hands in a peaceful surrender. "I won't do a thing. Go to sleep."

Sharon collapsed onto her pillows, pulling the duvet over her head and shutting her eyes tightly. Before slipping under, she kept chanting a mental reminder: Don't sleep too heavily. Wake up the moment you hear a sound.

She tried to force her subconscious into a state of high alert. But she didn't even make it through the third repetition before heavy, inescapable sleep pulled her under.

Normally, Sharon was a notoriously light sleeper—fussy about her mattress, paranoid about strange environments, and utterly incapable of sleeping if someone unfamiliar was nearby. But her body's memory was far sharper than her conscious mind. With Ethan sitting just across the room, her body instinctively recognized his presence as safe.

The moment her breathing deepened into a steady rhythm, the weak, pathetic posture Ethan had maintained on the sofa vanished. He sat up straight, his dull eyes sharpening into something dark, intense, and calculating.

He reached over to switch off the floor lamp beside him. The only illumination left in the room came from the faint nightlight on Sharon's nightstand and the soft amber glow of the garden lamps filtering through the gap in the curtains.

Using the dim light, Ethan's eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness. He locked his gaze onto her sleeping form like a predator watching its prey. Perhaps he should drop the gentlemanly act right now, walk over, wrap his fingers around her delicate throat, and force her to take back those wretched words: Let's break up.

He dismissed the thought a second later. It wasn't urgent. Once his plan reached its conclusion, everything he wanted would fall right back into his hands.

He remained seated on the sofa for another half hour, listening as Sharon's breathing turned heavy and deep from the day's sheer exhaustion.

Finally, he stood up. His posture was tall and straight, devoid of any trace of the frail, sick man he had played earlier.

He walked over to her bedside with soundless, measured steps. Sinking first to his knees, then lowering himself to sit beside her, a subtle smile touched the corner of his lips as he reached out a hand toward her face. Fearing he might wake her, he kept his fingertips hovering a fraction of an inch above her soft skin, hovering like a ghost.

The feather-light air current stirred against Sharon's cheek. She let out a soft, sleepy murmur, her hand coming up to brush her face before she turned her head toward the other side of the pillow.

Ethan pulled his hand back with practiced agility, holding his breath until she settled back into a peaceful slumber. Only then did he let out a low, quiet breath of relief.

He was exhausted from the day's endless maneuvering himself. Rising slowly, he walked around to the other side of the king-sized bed, gently lifted the edge of the duvet, and slid inside. Wrapped in the warmth lingering from her body, he reached out beneath the sheets, lightly entwining his fingers with hers before closing his eyes.

The next morning, Sharon's alarm buzzed at nine sharp. She had planned to hit the snooze button, but the sudden memory of an uninvited guest in her room jolted her upright, sending a wave of morning dizziness crashing through her head.

She blinked away the haze and scanned the room. The reading nook was empty. She scrambled out of bed to search the suite—checking the walk-in closet, the bathroom, and even the storage room. Nothing.

She even crouched down to check beneath the bed, only to realize the mahogany frame was solid all the way to the floor. She pushed herself back up, dusting off her knees.

Grabbing her phone, she hovered over the screen, debating whether to reach out to him.

After their breakup, she had blocked his number and messaging accounts. Then, on some lonely night, she had unblocked him, only to re-block him less than a minute later. At this point, she couldn't even remember if his contact profile was currently sitting in her block list or not.

Recalling his comment about seeing her social media post yesterday, she assumed he wasn't blocked after all. Yet, scanning through her active contact list yielded nothing. Sharon navigated to her settings, pulled up her block list, and removed his contact.

Unsure if he had blocked her in return, she selected a basic, yellow smiling emoji and hit send.

Delivered.

Sharon raised an eyebrow in mild surprise. If he hadn't been unblocked until just now, how on earth had he seen her post yesterday?

There’s a mole on my friend list.

It certainly wasn't anyone from her immediate social circle in the city, as she had carefully set her privacy filters to exclude them from that specific post.

Before she could narrow down the list of suspects, her phone buzzed with an incoming message from Ethan: Out handling business. Back tonight.

Sharon stared at the glowing screen, momentarily stunned. The tone felt entirely wrong. Had she asked for an itinerary? Why was he reporting his whereabouts like they were still dating?

Frowning, she promptly sent his contact straight back into her block list.

Rule number one of dealing with Ethan Pierce: never give him an inch.

Sharon spent a quiet, leisurely morning at home, taking her time to reply to a barrage of texts from Chloe Quinn. Having witnessed Sharon's dramatic episode the previous day, Chloe had been checking in on her non-stop, terrified her best friend was spiraling into grief.

Sharon felt a desperate urge to tell her that the "dead man" had spent the night in her guest closet, and that she wasn't grieving in the slightest.

Unfortunately, Chloe was utterly convinced of her own tragic narrative, so Sharon spent a good chunk of energy reassuring her.

After a few minutes, Chloe sent a lengthy fifty-second voice message, her tone laced with exasperation. She asked if Sharon had somehow offended Ryan Shaw. Apparently, on the drive home yesterday, Ryan hadn't stopped making biting, sarcastic remarks about Sharon. Chloe had tried to defend her best friend, but lost her temper when she couldn't out-argue him. Furious, she had demanded he pull the car over, hopped out, and taken a taxi home alone.

Sharon had no idea why Ryan’s attitude toward her had shifted so drastically. When they met that morning, he had been perfectly pleasant, only to turn completely hostile by the afternoon. No wonder Chloe had dumped him—unpredictable, moody men didn't deserve wives anyway.

Sharon played dumb with Chloe, though a pang of guilt tugged at her heart. She showered her best friend with sweet words, thanking her for taking her side and promising to buy her dinner next week to make it up to her.

By mid-afternoon, it was time to make her appearance at the Pierce estate. Sharon had phoned Ethan’s stepmother in advance—a contact number she had saved years ago that was finally serving a purpose.

When Victoria Vance answered the call, her tone was a masterclass in grief wrapped in subtle excitement, insisting that Sharon come over so they could comfort each other. She played the part of a grieving, devoted stepmother to absolute perfection.

Sharon’s driver dropped her off outside the grand gates of the Pierce family mansion.

Today, Sharon had chosen a understated ensemble: a dark charcoal, halter-neck sleeveless dress paired with her hair swept up into a soft, half-up style. Her face was styled in a natural, bare-minimum makeup look, complemented by a pair of modest pearl studs in her ears. She looked every bit the quiet, obedient young woman elder family members adored.

Except, she was nothing of the sort. She simply knew that presenting herself this way would yield the exact reaction she needed.

What she didn't expect was for Victoria Vance to personally walk out to the driveway to greet her. Sharon feigned a look of touched surprise, offering a polite, soft-spoken, "Aunt Victoria."

Victoria held a black sun umbrella over Sharon’s head, taking her hand with maternal warmth. "Oh, sweetheart, you fainted so suddenly yesterday! How are you feeling today? Are you recovering alright? It's far too hot to be running around outside... You simply must stay for dinner tonight."

Sharon wasn't particularly close with Victoria Vance; they had only met twice before—once when Ethan brought her home years ago, and the second time at yesterday's memorial service.

This sudden display of affection was hardly a sign of goodwill. Sharon knew Victoria was putting on an act, and that very knowledge made her skin crawl. Walking into this house felt like stepping straight into a wolf's den. For a fleeting second, she almost regretted not forcing Ethan to sign that promissory note—if she met an untimely end here, it ought to count as an occupational hazard.

Upon entering the grand foyer, Victoria handed the umbrella to a waiting maid and led Sharon into the main living room, instructing the staff to prepare afternoon tea.

"The last time you visited, I noticed you enjoyed the toffee pudding," Victoria said sweetly, patting her hand. "I had the kitchen prepare a fresh batch for you today."

Sharon offered a polite smile, though the visit she was referring to had occurred years ago. Sharon couldn't even remember if she had touched the toffee pudding back then—or if it had even been served.

Who knew if the woman's memory was real or fabricated?

Victoria gripped Sharon's hands, her eyes suddenly brimming with well-rehearsed tears. She let out a long, heavy sigh, lamenting how Ethan had been taken away so young, leaving the family empire and the entire household in complete disarray just as he had taken full control.

Watching a large tear roll down Victoria’s cheek and land on her tailored qipao, Sharon remembered why she had come here today.

A flush of red crept up Sharon's nose, and two heavy tears spilled over her lashes, followed by a torrent of uncontrollable weeping. She sobbed so hard she could barely catch her breath.

She was thinking about her late grandfather. She remembered how he used to pinch pennies, walking to pick her up from school every afternoon with a candied hawthorn stick in his hand. Remembering his weathered, deeply lined hand holding out that sweet treat for her was all it took to break her heart into pieces.

Victoria hadn't expected such an intense explosion of grief. Caught off guard, she froze for a second before frantically pulling tissues from a box to hand to Sharon.

Sharon cried until the toffee pudding was served, her chest heaving with deep, ragged breaths. She thought about many things—her grandfather, her grandmother, her parents, and her younger brother.

The only person she didn't think about was Ethan.

Victoria wiped away a few performative tears of her own, gently patting the back of Sharon's hand.

"Sharon, darling... since you clearly loved Ethan so deeply, why on earth did you break up with him in the first place?"