Beyond the Grave: My Ex-Husband's Ruin

Three years after my death, my music mogul husband, Andrew Scott, sued my estate.

His claim? That the bone marrow I donated to his starlet lover, Molly Clarkson, was failing her, causing her leukemia to relapse.

I' m a ghost, tied to him, forced to watch him rage.

He held a press conference, signing over my life' s work-my entire unreleased song catalog-to Molly, calling it a "gift."

When that stunt didn' t work, he stormed to my family' s modest home, accusing me of faking my death, convinced I was just hiding.

He dismissed my younger sister, Stella' s, pleas that I was dead, then brutally attacked my beloved three-legged terrier, Banjo, as a twisted warning.

He boasted about financially bailing out my family, twisting the knife.

But Andrew didn' t know the whole truth.

I died from complications after the bone marrow procedure, critically weakened.

I had a rare genetic condition, Fanconi anemia, which made the donation incredibly high-risk.

The doctors Molly paid never told him, and they gave me a dangerously low dose of anesthesia, leaving me paralyzed but conscious, feeling every agonizing drill into my bones.

I died less than two weeks later, while he celebrated Molly' s "remission" in Aspen.

He believed the falsified hospital records saying I was discharged in stable condition, refusing to accept I was gone.

Now, my spirit screamed as Andrew vowed to find me, threatening my family with unspeakable violence unless I reappeared.

My grave was empty.

My brother, Matthew, will bring me home.

Three years after my death, my music mogul husband, Andrew Scott, filed a lawsuit against my estate.

His claim was absurd. He said the bone marrow I donated to his starlet, Molly Clarkson, was failing, causing a relapse of her leukemia. He' d sent legal threats, but of course, received no response.

I' m a ghost, after all. My spirit is tethered to him, unable to move on because a piece of me, my marrow, still lives inside his lover.

To force me out of what he thought was hiding, he held a press conference. It was a theatrical performance, him standing at a podium, his face a mask of pained generosity. He announced he was signing over the master recordings of my entire unreleased song catalog to Molly.

"A gift," he called it, "to support her during this difficult time."

The press ate it up. My songs, my soul, handed over to the woman who was a part of the reason I was dead.

When that stunt didn't work, his patience finally snapped. He drove his sleek, black Mercedes to my family' s modest home in a working-class Nashville suburb. The car looked like a spaceship that had landed on the wrong planet.

A neighbor, Mrs. Gable, was watering her petunias. She eyed his luxury car with suspicion.

"You lookin' for Gabby?" she asked, her voice raspy from years of smoking. "Haven' t seen her since her dad' s funeral. That was years ago."

Andrew ignored her. He stormed up the porch steps, the wood groaning under his weight, and pounded on the door. The whole frame shook.

My younger sister, Stella, a fiery college student who worshipped me, opened it. Her eyes widened, then narrowed into slits.

"Andrew Scott?" she said, her voice dripping with venom. "Don' t you know my sister' s been dead for two years?"

Andrew scoffed, leaning his expensive frame against the door. He looked Stella up and down as if she were a bug.

"What' s Gabby' s new angle? Faking her own death to make me feel guilty?"

He shook his head, a humorless smile on his face.

"She was reckless enough to cause that studio 'accident' that nearly crippled Molly. I just froze her credit cards, and she runs off and pulls this stunt?"

He wasn' t finished.

"Molly' s leukemia is back. If it weren' t for that, I wouldn' t even be here giving her a second chance."

Stella' s face hardened, her knuckles white as she gripped the doorknob.

"My sister is dead. You 'giving her a chance' is the sickest joke I' ve ever heard."

Andrew' s gaze flickered past her, catching movement inside the house. A scruffy, three-legged terrier, a rescue I named Banjo, wagged his tail hopefully.

Andrew' s eyes lit up with a cruel sort of victory.

"You' re a terrible liar. Banjo' s here. Where could Gabby be?"

He pushed himself off the doorframe, his voice low and threatening.

"Tell her I' m offering her an out. If she doesn' t take it, she can forget ever hearing from me again."

As if he understood the threat, Banjo limped forward, his tail now tucked between his legs. He let out a weak bark at Andrew' s polished leather boots. My soul, a silent, helpless observer, ached as I saw the dog tremble.

The last time Banjo did that was two years ago. He' d bitten Andrew for shoving me against a wall. Andrew kicked him, a sickening thud that echoed in my memory. The kick broke Banjo's hip, leaving him with a permanent limp.

"Get that damn mutt away from me before I finish the job," Andrew snarled, his face twisting in disgust.

Stella immediately scooped the little dog into her arms, holding him tight.

"She' s dead! If she were alive, I' d make sure she was a thousand miles away from you, with a man who actually loved her, not a monster like you!"

Andrew' s lip curled.

"So she' s shacked up with some other musician? Figures. Molly was right, you can' t trust a girl with a guitar and a sob story. I can' t believe I married her."

The words were a physical blow, even to my spirit. The pain was as real and sharp as it was when I was alive.

"Get the hell out of my house!" Stella screamed, her voice cracking with rage and grief.

Andrew' s eyes turned to ice.

"Your house? This house?" he said softly, the quietness more menacing than his yelling. "The down payment came from me. The money that paid for your father' s cancer treatments? That was me too. Your brother' s truck? Me. Did your sister forget to mention that?"

He was right. He had bailed my family out of financial ruin. That' s why I felt I owed him everything, why I agreed to the donation.

But he didn't know the whole truth. He never knew.

I was born with Fanconi anemia, a rare genetic condition. It made me a high-risk bone marrow donor. The doctors Molly hired for the procedure, the ones Andrew paid for, never told him. They also gave me a dangerously low dose of anesthesia during the extraction.

I was conscious, paralyzed, feeling every excruciating moment as they drilled into my bones and harvested my marrow. The procedure left me critically weakened. I died from post-procedure complications and septic shock less than two weeks later, while Andrew was in Aspen, celebrating Molly' s "remission."

"If you don' t believe me," Stella choked out, tears streaming down her face, "go check the records at Vanderbilt University Medical Center! Her death certificate is on file!"

Andrew let out a cold, sharp laugh.

"I already did. They told me she was discharged in stable condition. Try again."

The hospital records had been falsified. A lie so simple, so clean, and he believed it without a single question.

Just then, my brother Matthew' s pickup truck screeched to a halt in the driveway, kicking up gravel. He jumped out, his work clothes covered in drywall dust, his eyes burning with a rage that matched Stella' s.

"Andrew Scott!" he roared, storming toward the porch. "You have no business being here!"