Chapter 3

I became a phantom bound to that luxury apartment.

An invisible observer, untouched and unseen.

The detectives arrived.

Floating in the living room, I watched Mom weep hysterically before the officers.

"Officer, my poor daughter… she was battling severe depression."

"She couldn't get past her dark thoughts. We took her to multiple specialists, and she was on daily medication…"

She pulled out a set of forged clinical notes along with several empty pill bottles from her designer purse.

Those were just basic cold prescriptions from months ago.

Now, they were being presented as conclusive evidence of my mental breakdown.

"We tried everything… we gave her all our love… but we couldn't save her…"

She collapsed into Dad's chest, her frame shuddering with theatrical sobs.

Dad wore a mask of sheer devastation.

He wrapped an arm around her, nodding solemnly and backing up every single lie she uttered.

Their grief-stricken faces looked like the portrait of heartbroken parents.

Yet I could see right through them.

They were grieving, absolutely. But they weren't mourning their daughter.

They were mourning the collapse of their polished brand and the sudden halt of their multi-million-dollar cash flow.

The officers took down their notes with deep sympathy.

"We are so deeply sorry for your loss."

The second the front door clicked shut, Mom's wailing stopped dead.

She shoved Dad away violently. "Damn worthless brat! She couldn't even pick a better time to die!"

She kicked the glass coffee table in frustration.

"What do we do now? I have two brand partnership meetings scheduled for tomorrow!"

Dad slumped deeper into the sofa. "What else can we do? Hold the memorial quickly and keep the fallout to a minimum."

"David, you make it sound so easy! That was my daughter! The news is already spreading online! What about my career?"

"Your daughter? Was she not mine too?"

Dad snapped, yelling back at her for the very first time: "If you hadn't insisted on auctioning off that stupid bracelet, would she have jumped?"

"Now you're blaming me? Did you decline your cut of the money when I sold it?"

"Who paid for the sports cars and this penthouse over the years? Don't act all righteous with me now, you hypocrite!"

I watched the spectacle in icy silence.

The memorial service came and went, organized with sleek efficiency.

Dressed in head-to-toe designer black with oversized sunglasses, Mom played the role of a mother on the verge of fainting before a sea of cameras.

No sooner had the service ended than she prepared to squeeze the final drop of value out of my demise.

She planned a livestream.

The title: *Carrying My Daughter's Memory: Finding the Strength to Move Forward.*

I drifted right beside her as she sat at her vanity, meticulously applying a "grief-stricken yet resilient" makeup palette.

She rehearsed her fragile expressions in the mirror.

"Family, thank you all for your love. I'm hanging in there."

"Chloe may be gone, but she will live in my heart forever."

"Tonight, I want to share some of our warmest memories together. Think of it as a final farewell."

Satisfied with her rehearsal, she stood up and walked into the study.

She booted up her primary streaming rig—a custom, top-tier workstation.

Then, she reached for the gift I had given her.

She plugged the pink external hard drive into the USB port.

She needed those "heartwarming clips" to pull at the viewers' heartstrings during the broadcast.

I floated right over her shoulder, watching the drive's icon pop up on the desktop.