The Family's Regret, Too Late Now

My family accused me of betraying them, of nearly destroying the tech empire they had built from nothing.

As punishment, my father and two older brothers locked me in my room, leaving me without food or water until I confessed to a crime I didn't commit.

But when a medical condition flared and I began to suffocate, they dismissed my desperate screams for help as just another one of my "theatrics."

"She's just being dramatic," I heard them say through the thick oak door, right before they added extra bolts.

They were completely blinded by Ivy, the manipulative outsider I had welcomed as a sister. They chose her lies over their own blood, forgetting how I had secretly liquidated my own assets to save their company years ago.

I died alone, my last breath a desperate gasp in a house that refused to listen.

Then, I woke up.

Floating as a spirit above my own decaying body, I became a silent witness, waiting for the moment they would finally break down the door and be forced to see what they had done.

Chapter 1

Chelsea's POV:

I died. Not with a bang, but with a whimper, alone in a room that smelled of stale air and my own fear.

Then, I woke up. Not in a hospital, not in heaven, just... awake.

My body was still there, slumped against the wall, but I wasn't in it anymore. I was floating, formless, a silent observer in the very room they had locked me in. It was dark, stifling, exactly how I remembered it.

A flurry of footsteps echoed from the grand hallway outside. The heavy oak door, which had been my prison, rattled.

Laughter. Familiar, deep, and utterly devoid of the warmth I once cherished.

My father, Corbin, entered first, his expensive suit still perfectly tailored despite the late hour. His presence always seemed to suck the oxygen from a room, leaving only ambition in its wake.

Behind him, Emilio, my eldest brother, a carbon copy of our father's ruthless efficiency. His arm was wrapped around Ivy Winters' waist, guiding her gently into the opulent living room.

Then Erland, my middle brother, the tech genius, who usually preferred the solitude of his lab. He followed closely, his hand resting solicitously on Ivy' s lower back.

Ivy. She looked radiant, as always. Her red dress shimmered under the chandeliers, a stark contrast to the gloom of my former prison.

"Are you alright, my love?" Corbin asked, his voice thick with concern as he helped Ivy onto the plush velvet sofa. "That meeting was exhausting."

Emilio nodded, his eyes scanning Ivy' s face for any sign of distress. "You looked truly drained. This whole ordeal has been taxing on you."

"I truly am fine," Ivy murmured, her voice soft, designed to sound fragile. She leaned her head against Corbin's shoulder. "Just a little... unsettled. It' s been a stressful few days, hasn't it?"

Erland knelt beside her, his brow furrowed with genuine worry. "You should rest, Ivy. Perhaps a warm bath? You've been so strong through all of this."

My spirit, hovering near the ceiling, felt a cold, hollow laugh escape from where my lungs used to be. Strong? She was performing. They were blind.

A housemaid, Mrs. Gable, a kind woman who had served our family for decades, shuffled forward, her hands clasped nervously. "Mr. Gibson, sirs... about Miss Chelsea."

Corbin' s eyes, which had been doting on Ivy, snapped to Mrs. Gable. His face hardened. "What about her, Mrs. Gable?"

"She hasn't eaten in two days, sir," Mrs. Gable said, her voice trembling slightly. "And... she' s been calling out. Very weakly this morning, but still calling."

Emilio cut her off, his voice sharp like a whip. "That's enough, Mrs. Gable. Her theatrics are irrelevant."

Mrs. Gable flinched, her eyes dropping to the polished marble floor. She knew better than to argue with Emilio when he used that tone. He had a way of freezing the air around him.

"She' s just trying to get attention," Emilio continued, turning back to the others. His eyes held a dismissive glint. "It's what she always does when she doesn't get her way. She thinks if she causes enough trouble, we'll just give in and let her off the hook for betraying the family."

"Indeed," Corbin agreed, his jaw tight. "She clearly has no remorse."

Ivy, still nestled against Corbin, let out a soft, shaky breath. "Oh, Corbin. I just... I hope she understands the gravity of her actions. It's not about punishing her, it's about making her see the damage she's caused." She dabbed delicately at the corner of her eye, though no tears fell. It was a practiced move.

"Don't worry, my dear," Corbin soothed, stroking her hair. "She will. We' re doing this for her own good. She needs to learn responsibility." He shot a stern look at Mrs. Gable. "No one is to go near her. No food, no water, until she admits her wrongdoing and shows genuine regret."

Erland, who had been quietly checking his phone, frowned. "Her communication logs are completely empty. No outbound calls, no messages. Not even social media activity for the past three days."

"See?" Emilio scoffed, throwing his hands up. "The little sneak probably ditched her burner phone or found a way to bypass our block. Trying to cover her tracks, no doubt." His theory was always the worst-case scenario when it came to me.

Ivy sighed dramatically. "Perhaps she's truly upset, Emilio. It must be hard for her to face the consequences." Her voice was a purr of false sympathy.

"Upset?" Emilio laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "She's always been a drama queen. Anything to avoid responsibility. Unlike you, Ivy, who always handles things with such grace."

"She needs to understand," Erland added, his voice firm, "that this kind of behavior will not be tolerated. We built this company from nothing, and her recklessness threatens to tear it all down."

"She will remain confined," Corbin decreed, his voice cold and final. "No contact, no privileges, until she confesses. Until she understands the magnitude of her betrayal."

My spirit watched them, a phantom limb aching with a familiar pain. Magnitude of my betrayal? I wanted to scream, to lash out, but my voice was gone, my form intangible. The irony of their words was a bitter taste in my non-existent mouth.

I was nothing but a shadow, a witness to my own undoing.

It wasn't always like this. My parents, who had been Corbin' s first wife and my mother, passed away when I was very young. It left a void that even the vastness of the estate couldn't fill. Emilio and Erland, years older, had been my protectors then. My brothers, who once held my hand and told me stories, who chased away my imaginary monsters.

I wanted companionship. I yearned for a playmate, a sister.

That' s when Ivy Winters entered our lives. A distant relative of Corbin's new wife, a sophisticated woman who soon became Corbin' s girlfriend. She was charming, intelligent, and seemed to understand the complex dynamics of our family better than anyone. I, naive and desperate for a friend, welcomed her with open arms. I told her everything, shared my secrets, my art, my dreams.

Ivy, however, had other plans. She was a master of whispers, a weaver of subtle lies. Slowly, meticulously, she began to twist my words, to paint me as the volatile, irresponsible black sheep. She fanned the flames of my brothers' existing prejudices against my artistic leanings, making them see my sensitivity as weakness, my quiet nature as defiance.

The data breach. A catastrophic leak that threatened to bring down Gibson Tech. Ivy framed me for it, meticulously planting digital breadcrumbs that led straight to my name. My father, blinded by her flattery and his own obsession with image, saw me as the perfect scapegoat. My brothers, eager to protect their empire, believed every word.

The punishment was swift and brutal. Confined to my room, stripped of all communication, abandoned.

The room was not just dark; it was suffocating. The air grew thick, heavy with my own CO2. My chest tightened, a burning sensation clawing at my throat. My medical condition, usually manageable with proper care, was flaring. My breath hitched. This wasn't just theatrics. This was real.

I beat on the door, my fists raw against the unyielding wood. "Please! I can't breathe! I need help!" My voice was hoarse, ragged, a desperate cry against the silence.

I heard footsteps in the hall. "She's at it again," Emilio's voice, muffled through the thick door, was filled with annoyance. "Trying to get attention."

"Just ignore her," Erland replied, his tone weary. "She'll get over it."

"She's just being dramatic," Ivy's voice, saccharine sweet, cut through the wood. "Don't fall for her tricks, darlings."

"No!" I shrieked, my voice cracking. "It's not a trick! I'm really sick!"

But they only laughed. A cold, dismissive sound that echoed in the vast, uncaring house.

"She always does this," Corbin' s voice, a gravelly rumble of authority. "Trying to manipulate us. Don't worry, she'll calm down when she realizes we won't be swayed by her childish games. Lock the secondary bolts."

I heard the heavy thud of the extra locks. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. The last shred of hope withered, dying inside me. The darkness pressed in, heavier now, thicker.

I slumped against the door, my vision blurring. The air was a suffocating blanket. My body convulsed, a final, desperate struggle.

Ivy's faint, triumphant smile. I saw it through the crack under the door, a fleeting glimpse of pure malice.

You truly are a monster, my spirit whispered, a silent accusation in the suffocating void. And they... they are your accomplices.

Chelsea's POV:

"It's alright, my love," Corbin said, still stroking Ivy' s hair, his back to the door that held my deceased body. "Don't let her theatrics upset you. She'll come around eventually."

Emilio, ever the protector, glared towards the unseen door. "She always makes a show of it. Honestly, it's exhausting. Acting out like this, after everything."

Erland, leaning against the antique fireplace, let out a frustrated sigh. "I swear, sometimes it feels like she enjoys causing drama. She's never been one to face consequences gracefully."

Ivy carefully moved away from Corbin, her hand subtly reaching for her arm. She rubbed a patch of skin, a faint red mark visible on her porcelain wrist. Her lower lip trembled ever so slightly.

"What's wrong, darling?" Corbin asked, instantly alert, his eyes narrowed with concern. "Did she hurt you earlier?"

Ivy quickly dropped her hand, shaking her head. "No, no, it's nothing, Corbin. Just a little scratch from... from the struggle to get her phone. She was quite resistant." Her voice was barely a whisper, filled with a feigned bravery.

Corbin' s face darkened, a storm brewing in his eyes. "A scratch? She dared to lay a hand on you?" His voice was low, dangerous. "After all you've done for this family, for her?"

"She has no shame!" Emilio spat, his fists clenching at his sides. "No remorse for the data breach, no respect for you, Ivy, who has only ever shown her kindness."

"This is unacceptable," Erland added, his voice tight. "She needs to be brought out. She needs to apologize, properly. She needs to understand the depth of her disrespect."

Corbin slammed his hand on the armrest of the sofa, the sound echoing through the room. "Mrs. Gable! Go get her. Bring her here. She will apologize to Ivy, and she will face the consequences of her actions immediately."

Mrs. Gable, still standing by the door, wrung her hands. "Sir, I... I tried earlier. She... she was very unwell."

"Unwell?" Corbin scoffed, his eyes blazing. "She's a master manipulator. This is just another one of her games. Bring her out, Mrs. Gable! Now! And if she resists, make sure she understands that this time, there will be no leniency."

Mrs. Gable's shoulders slumped. She offered a small, defeated nod before turning and shuffling back towards the hallway, her footsteps heavy with dread.

My spirit watched her go, a ghost of a smile touching my non-existent lips. They truly believe I'm still in there, playing games. The delusion is almost comical, if it weren't so tragic. They always saw me through the lens of their preconceived notions, never truly looking, never truly listening.

I remembered the "incident" Ivy had just alluded to. It wasn't a struggle, not really. Ivy had cornered me in the hallway, her smile too wide, her eyes too bright. She had pressed a small vial into my hand. "It's a new allergy medication for your condition, Chelsea. Your father insisted I give it to you. He worries about you."

I had looked at the vial, my brow furrowed. "But my medication is usually distinct. This looks different."

"Oh, it's a new formulation," Ivy had said, waving her hand dismissively. "Much stronger. Just take it." She had then pulled my hand to my mouth, forcing a few drops in before I could react. That's when I had seen it – the faint red marks on her wrist, from where she' d accidentally spilled some of the liquid, a potent allergen, on herself. She was so close to me, her breath sweet, her eyes devoid of any concern. It was a calculated move, not an accident. I felt the familiar constriction in my throat almost immediately.

Then she had feigned a struggle, twisting my arm to make it look like I was resisting, securing my phone from my pocket. "Oh, Chelsea, why do you always have to be so difficult?" she' d sighed, loud enough for a passing maid to hear.

And now, here I was, or rather, here my body was, suffering the consequences of their blindness. Their unwavering belief in her, their absolute dismissal of me. The pain, once acute, had faded into a dull throb in my ghostly chest. It was a numb acceptance. Death was a release, after all.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Gable returned, her face ashen, her fingers twitching uncontrollably. "Mr. Gibson," she stammered, "She... she isn't responding."

Corbin stiffened, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. "What do you mean, 'not responding'? Is she refusing to come out?"

"I... I knocked, sir. I called her name. There' s no sound. No movement. Not even..." Mrs. Gable swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper. "Not even breathing, sir."

Emilio snorted, a disbelieving sound. "Don't be ridiculous, Mrs. Gable. She's just playing dead. A new low, even for her."

Ivy gasped, a high-pitched, fragile sound, clutching Corbin's arm. "Oh, no! Could she... could she have done something drastic, Corbin? She has always been so emotional." Her eyes, wide with fake fear, sought confirmation from Corbin.

Corbin's face, though still tinged with anger, now held a flicker of something else. Something unsettling. "This is too far, Chelsea!" he roared, standing abruptly. "This childish game has gone on long enough! She's trying to scare us, make us feel guilty. It's despicable!"

He strode towards the hallway, his powerful frame radiating fury. "I'll go myself! She will apologize. She will acknowledge her betrayal. And she will learn that this family cannot be manipulated!"

My spirit watched him, a silent observer of his futile rage. You're too late, Father. But the words, like my breath, were lost to the void.

Chelsea's POV:

My spirit drifted, a weightless presence, following Corbin. The living room blurred behind me, replaced by the dimly lit hallway. With every step he took towards the room, an unsettling emptiness grew within me. It wasn't just the absence of my physical body; it was the hollow recognition of how utterly alone I had been.

Emilio and Erland were right behind him, their heavy footsteps thudding on the Persian rug. They reached the door to the room, the one with the secondary bolts Corbin had ordered. The air around it felt colder, heavier.

Corbin pounded on the thick oak. "Chelsea! Enough of this nonsense! Open this door right now!" His voice boomed, echoing in the suffocating silence.

No answer. Only the silence of a house that held a secret.

Corbin's jaw tightened, his face darkening like a storm cloud. He banged again, harder this time. "Don't test my patience, young lady! You are pushing your luck! You think this is some kind of clever protest? An act of rebellion?"

Still, nothing.

"She' s probably just sulking," Emilio scoffed, trying to sound confident, but a sliver of unease flickered in his eyes. "Trying to make us feel bad. She's always been so dramatic, so self-indulgent."

Erland stepped forward, his eyes narrowed, a different kind of anger on his face. "She thinks we'll just forget about the data leak if she hides away. Thinks she can manipulate us with her silence. She's always been weak, always running from responsibility."

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. No defiant retort, no whimper, no sound at all.

Corbin turned, his gaze sharp and accusatory, landing on Mrs. Gable who hovered timidly a few feet away. "You said she was calling out, Mrs. Gable. That she was unwell. Was that another one of her fabricated stories? Were you in on it?"

Mrs. Gable trembled, her eyes wide with fear. "No, sir! Never! She... she was truly unwell. I heard her. I swear."

"She' s probably just run away," Emilio muttered, rubbing his chin. "That's her style. Cause chaos, then disappear."

"I wouldn't put it past her," Erland agreed, though his gaze kept drifting back to the door. "She' s never truly fit in with the family. Always the sensitive one, the artistic one, the one who couldn't handle the pressure." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Honestly, sometimes I wonder if she was really one of us."

One of you? My spirit scoffed, a silent, bitter laugh. I was more of you than you ever cared to see.

Mrs. Gable, her voice a reedy whisper, insisted, "No, sirs. She' s been in there. I've heard her. She hasn't left."

Corbin' s eyes lingered on the door, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. A nascent worry, perhaps? A whisper of doubt in the fortress of his certainty.

He tried the doorknob, twisting it with a violent jerk. It held fast. He slammed his shoulder against the wood, once, twice. The door remained stubbornly shut.

"Chelsea, seriously!" Corbin roared, his voice laced with frustration now. "This isn't funny! You think you're clever, locking yourself in? Playing coy?"

Coy? My spirit echoed. If only you knew what was behind that door.

I remembered the last moments. The air, heavy like wet blankets, pressing down on my lungs. My body, writhing, desperate for a gasp of fresh air. My fingers clawed at the solid wood, leaving faint, bloody streaks. I screamed until my throat was raw, until my voice was nothing but a rasp.

The door, thick and unyielding, had been an impenetrable barrier. It was then that I realized the cold, hard truth: they weren't coming. They believed Ivy. They believed their own narrative about me. They were letting me die.

My last breath was a ragged, silent cough. My chest burned, then went numb. The light faded to black.

Just open the door, my spirit pleaded, a silent prayer to the men who could no longer hear me. Just see what you' ve done.

Corbin' s frustration boiled over. He kicked the door, a solid, furious thud. The wood groaned, a faint crack appearing near the top hinge.

Then, a smell. Not the metallic tang of blood, or the sweet odor of decaying flowers. This was deeper, fouler. A sickly-sweet stench, heavy and cloying, wafted from the crack.

Mrs. Gable gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh my God! What is that smell?" Her voice was tight with rising panic.

Emilio and Erland, drawn by the sudden shift, rushed forward, their expressions mirroring hers.

"It's probably a dead rat," Emilio said, trying to dismiss it, though his nose crinkled in disgust. "Or she's spilled something foul in there. Another one of her childish attempts to bother us."

"Perhaps she's making some kind of... art project," Erland added, his voice laced with disdain. "Something to shock us."

The three Gibson men, their faces contorted with a mixture of disgust and irritation, simultaneously kicked the door. A loud, splintering CRACK echoed through the silent hallway.

The door lurched inward, ripped from its frame.

The stench intensified, a suffocating wave that assaulted every sense. It was the smell of something truly, horribly, irretrievably dead.

The darkness of the suffocating room was finally exposed.