Chapter 5

The one who entered was sophia reed.She had come looking for Steven Anderson, who had been absent from the party for too long.

But she didn’t see the photo on his phone, nor did she notice the tears he had quickly wiped away.

By the time Sophia arrived, Steven had already returned to his usual calm and composed self, offering her a mechanical smile.

“Steven, what’s taking so long to change? The guests are waiting for us. Let’s go back out!”

She reached out to pull him up, but he subtly dodged her touch.

Using the haze of alcohol as a shield, Steven pressed his hand to his temple, squinting slightly. He managed to stand briefly, only to collapse back onto the sofa.

“I’m still too drunk,” he said, his voice low. “I’ll need another couple of cups of sobering tea. You go ahead, I’ll join you in a moment.”

The phone tightly clutched in his hand caught Sophia’s attention.

Curious, she picked it up and began flipping through it. She scrolled through his folders, even opening his private album, but found nothing—no trace of me.

“What’s wrong?” Steven asked, feigning indifference.

“Nothing,” Sophia replied, handing the phone back. “I thought maybe you were still holding onto thoughts of that dead woman, Ginger.”

Steven let out a bitter laugh.

“How could I possibly still think about her? She was nothing more than the donor I found to give you a healthy heart.”

What was he doing?

The same man who had just shed tears over my photo was now speaking such heartless words.

Which version of him was the truth?

“Good,” Sophia said with a satisfied smile, her lips curling upward. She pressed her hand to her chest. “Thanks to her heart, I can stand here by your side today. And soon, I’ll officially be your wife.”

Sophia left the room, her heels clicking against the floor, completely unaware of the change in Steven’s demeanor behind her.

The smile faded from his face, replaced by an expression of cold, dangerous intensity.

His trembling hand, which had just been hiding behind his back, deleted the photo from his phone. His fingers shook as he pressed the button, the redness in his eyes returning as if it had never left.

His clenched fist turned white at the knuckles, and though I was nothing more than a soul, I could hear the low, guttural sob that escaped his chest.

“Ginger,” he whispered, broken and raw, “this is my fault. If I had just loved you a little more, maybe we wouldn’t be separated like this—between life and death.”

I couldn’t understand him anymore.

I wanted to reach out and hold him, to comfort him, but my hand passed right through his body.

I grasped at nothing.

The only thing I touched was the fabric of his collar, the way I used to straighten it for him every morning before he left for work.

Steven froze for a moment, his eyes widening. He turned his head slightly and, for a brief second, his gaze seemed to meet mine.

There was confusion in his eyes. And sadness.

“Ginger…” he murmured my name, almost like a prayer.

“I’m here,” I wanted to scream. “I’m here. I’ve always been here.”

But he couldn’t hear me.

The only response was the flickering light in the dressing room and the muffled buzz of celebration outside.

The joy from the engagement party stood in sharp contrast to the desolation in Steven’s chest.

He let out a bitter laugh, wiping his tears away with the back of his sleeve. Then he drained the glass of sobering tea in one gulp.

Straightening his tie and squaring his shoulders, he walked out of the dressing room with purpose, heading back to the battlefield that awaited him.

Once again, I had been wrong.

My husband… it seemed he did love me.

He loved me deeply.