When Love Turned To A Grave

When I was pregnant, my husband, Christian, abandoned me.

Because he chose my sister, Annabelle.

Five years after my tragic death, Annabelle fell critically ill and desperately needed a kidney. That was when they remembered me.

He called, demanding that I drag myself back, but I was no longer capable of answering.

My five-year-old daughter answered instead. "My mommy passed away a long time ago."

He refused to believe the child was his.

Until a DNA report proved their paternity.

As he dug up my grave, the truth finally broke him. Meanwhile, my soul was tethered to his side, forced to witness his entire world crumble to dust.

Chapter 1

Elara Morgan's POV:

The day Christian sent me away was the day he signed my death warrant.

My sister, Annabelle, was beautiful. Everyone thought she was fragile, like a delicate flower that would wither under the slightest pressure.

My husband, Christian, believed this more than anyone else.

She claimed to have a severe personality disorder, and he believed her.

She threatened to self-harm, and he believed that, too.

He even believed her over me-his pregnant wife.

That night five years ago, I was ready to give birth at any moment. My belly was swollen with our child.

"You need to leave," he said coldly.

"Go where, Christian?" My voice was so low it was barely audible, thick with disbelief. I instinctively cradled my belly, a protective gesture.

"To the countryside. It's for Annabelle's recovery. She needs peace and quiet, far away from all the drama."

My existence, my marriage, my thriving life. I was Annabelle's drama?

A car was waiting for me.

It took me to a desolate rural town. No one knew me there. No one cared about me. Just like Christian.

I was utterly heartbroken.

My husband, the all-powerful CEO of a tech empire, had banished his wife to a dilapidated cabin.

All of this was for Annabelle, who was faking mental illness in a bid to tear us apart.

I was all alone, vulnerable, and heavily pregnant. The absolute perfect prey.

Five years ago, the men Annabelle hired found me. They broke in during the dead of night and took everything from me.

My dignity. My life.

My soul lingered here, bound by agony, helplessly watching fate's cruel design unfold.

Now, Annabelle was actually sick. A life-threatening illness. Kidney failure.

The doctors lowered their voices, their tones heavy as they urged Christian to find a blood relative. To find a matching kidney.

He finally remembered me. Not my face, not my love, nor our child-just my kidney.

His call came, five years too late.

In that little cabin, the old landline rang with a frantic, stubborn urgency.

"Elara," his voice was loud and rushed, carrying an undeniable tone of command. "It's Christian. Get ready. I'm sending a car for you. Annabelle needs you."

It wasn't a request; it was an order, as if I were his subordinate, his property.

But the one who answered wasn't me. I was no longer capable of making a sound.

It was Kaelen's voice. My daughter. Our daughter.

"Hello?" she whispered, her voice so tiny it was barely audible, like a frightened little mouse.

Christian paused, a hint of irritation bleeding through. "Who is this? Where is Elara? Put her on the phone."

Kaelen stammered, "Mommy... Mommy is gone. She went away a long time ago."

"What are you talking about?" Christian's voice was laced with annoyance.

He thought I was playing tricks on him, thought I was hiding. He always assumed the absolute worst of me.

Kaelen, in all her innocence, didn't know how to explain death to a man who refused to believe it. "She's... she's not here anymore."

I hovered beside her, my ghostly hand reaching out, wanting to stroke her soft hair and tell her everything would be okay. But my hand phased right through her body, just like always. It was an unbearable agony.

"Hand the phone to an adult," Christian snapped.

Trembling, Kaelen handed the receiver to Pastor Bertram Parker.

He was the one who had taken me in when I first arrived. He was a kind old man who had looked after Kaelen like a grandfather after I was gone.

"Hello?" Bertram's voice was gentle, carrying a quiet dignity.

"Who are you?" Christian's tone was ice-cold.

"This is Bertram Parker, the pastor at the local church. You must be Christian Mason." Bertram knew. He had always known.

Through the ethereal window of my ghostly perception, I could see Christian's face darken. His jaw clenched.

A strange old man was interfering with his plans.

He spoke, his tone stiff. "Where is Elara? Tell her to stop this nonsense. I know she's there."

His arrogance was suffocating. He actually believed I was deliberately hiding from him, manipulating the situation.

"She cannot come to the phone, Christian," Bertram's voice was heavy with sorrow.

"Fine," Christian snarled. "If she wants to play these games, let her. I'll go there myself, and she's coming back with me whether she likes it or not." With that, he hung up, the abrupt click serving as a declaration of his absolute control.

The very next day, he arrived. A fleet of sleek black sedans kicked up dust as they rolled down that forgotten road.

He strode toward the dilapidated cabin, his expensive suit a jarring contrast to the peeling paint and the rickety porch. He scowled in disgust. The poverty of this place offended his wealthy sensibilities. My final home.

He found one of his men, a burly bodyguard, standing by the porch.

"Where is she? Elara Morgan. I'm here to take her back. Annabelle needs a kidney transplant. Tell her I'll pay for everything. A new house. A new life. Whatever she wants."

My entire life, reduced to a mere kidney donation.

The bodyguard shifted uncomfortably.

"Sir, perhaps we should wait for the pastor. He might have more information."

Just then, Bertram appeared, leaning on an old cane. His kind face was etched with worry. "Christian," he greeted, his voice remaining calm despite the escalating tension.

Christian narrowed his eyes, his gaze cold and impatient. "Pastor, where is Elara? I've traveled a long way."

Bertram sighed, his voice laced with exhaustion. "She cannot come out to see you."

A cold sneer twisted Christian's lips. "Drop the act, old man. I'm not in the mood for games. Tell her to show herself."

"Christian, please," Bertram began, his tone filled with pity.

"Do not test my patience, Pastor," Christian warned in a low, dangerous voice. "I came here myself. She has no choice but to come with me."

My ghostly form trembled.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to live. I wanted to hold my daughter.

But I couldn't.

Elara Morgan's POV:

"She has been dead for five years, Christian." Bertram's voice choked up, his grief palpable. "She passed away five years ago. May God rest her soul."

Christian burst into laughter. The harsh, incredulous sound sliced through the quiet air.

"Dead? Stop joking. Elara wouldn't die. She's just hiding, playing some kind of sick prank."

His gaze swept over the rundown little house, then over a group of villagers who had been drawn by the commotion.

"Find her! Tear this place apart if you have to! I want Elara Morgan, and I want her now!"

His bodyguards swarmed the village, their heavy boots kicking up dust, their expressions grim. They barged into homes, rummaging through the villagers' meager belongings, barking orders.

The poor, defenseless villagers scattered like frightened birds. An atmosphere of fear hung heavily over the village, like a thick, suffocating blanket.

As the minutes ticked by, Christian's expression grew darker. His frustration was palpable, rolling off him in waves of barely contained rage.

He couldn't find me. Because I wasn't there. At least, not in any way he could understand.

He grabbed Bertram by the collar, his strong hands twisting the worn fabric.

"Where is she, old man? Tell me where she's hiding herself!" His eyes were manic, the edges rimmed with red.

"I told you," Bertram gasped, struggling against Christian's iron grip. "She is dead."

"Don't lie to me!" Christian roared, his voice shaking the frail old man. "If you don't cooperate, I'll make you regret it!"

Bertram stared back at him, his gaze unwavering despite the pain.

"She is at peace, Christian. You should let her rest."

Christian's patience snapped like a dry twig.

With a sickening crunch, he violently twisted Bertram's arm.

A cry of pure agony ripped from the pastor's throat, echoing in the stifling silence.

Just then, a tiny figure burst from the crowd of terrified villagers.

It was Kaelen. My Kaelen.

"Grandpa!" she cried out, her voice high and childlike. She ran to Bertram's side, tears streaming down her cheeks, her small hands reaching out for his injured arm.

Christian froze. His furious eyes locked onto Kaelen.

A flicker of emotion crossed his face-confusion, a dawn of realization, and hesitation.

Glaring at him with wide, furious eyes, Kaelen bit down hard on Christian's hand. Christian let out a yell of pain.

It was a visceral reaction. Unthinking violence. He kicked her.

Not hard enough to be lethal, but hard enough to send her tumbling to the dusty ground, her small body hitting the earth with a heavy thud.

She struggled to her feet, her little chin trembling, a fire burning in her eyes that surprised even me, her mother.

"You... you big bully!" she screamed, her voice hoarse with pain and anger. "Why did you hurt Grandpa Bertram? Why?!"

Christian's face twisted. His arrogant facade crumbled for a fraction of a second, revealing a raw, unfamiliar emotion.

He stared at her, really looking at her, his eyes darting across her features. The shape of her eyes. Her stubborn jawline. It was as if he could see the ghost of my face reflected in hers.

He leaned down, grabbed her by the arm, and hoisted her up effortlessly until she was dangling in mid-air.

He turned her around, scrutinizing her face and her tiny hands.

"Bastard," he whispered, his voice raspy, laced with a complex mix of shock and disgust. "The illegitimate mutt Elara gave birth to."

His hand tightened around her neck. Kaelen thrashed, her small hands clawing at his fingers, her face turning a deep shade of red.

"My baby!" I screamed.

No! Christian, don't do this!

I lunged at him, my ethereal form phasing right through his solid body.

I couldn't touch him. I couldn't stop him. This powerlessness was a thousand times more agonizing than death itself.

Kaelen's struggles grew weaker. Her breathing became rapid, erratic, and desperate. Her eyes, wide with terror, searched wildly for help.

Despite his broken arm, Bertram tried to stand. "Christian, stop! She is your-"

The heavy boot of a guard slammed into his chest, knocking him back to the ground with a choked cough.

Christian loosened his grip just enough for Kaelen to take a shallow, gasping breath. Her eyes were still wide, still filled with absolute terror.

He dropped her to the ground.

"Elara!" he roared, his voice echoing through the silent village. "Three days! Three days, Elara! If you don't show yourself, I'll be back. And next time, this little bastard won't be so lucky!"

My soul trembled violently. Watching Bertram suffer such brutality, and watching my daughter's innocent life threatened by her own biological father-the pain was unbearable, surpassing even the torment of my own death.

Over the years, my love for Christian had warped and twisted, finally hardening into a deep, bone-chilling hatred.

I regretted every single second I had ever wasted loving him. Every gentle touch, every whispered promise, every shared dream.

He was a monster. A monster who had destroyed my life and was now threatening my child.

Elara Morgan's POV:

Three days flew by.

For a ghost like me, time flowed like a long, agonizing river.

On the morning of the fourth day, the black motorcade reappeared.

This time, there was another figure in the convoy. Annabelle.

She looked haggard, pale and weak, leaning heavily on Christian's arm as if she had lost all her former vitality.

Her once-bright eyes were dull, the cunning gleam replaced by a genuine vulnerability that made my ghostly form shudder with a twisted sense of satisfaction.

Five years ago, her arrogance had been sharp as a blade, but now, she looked almost pathetic. Almost.

Christian held her tenderly, as if she were made of spun glass. He helped her out of the car, his movements gentle, his eyes full of concern.

His unwavering devotion to her burned a fresh hole through my phantom heart.

I stood beside Bertram on the edge of the crowd, like a silent sentinel. He waited, brave and defiant, for Christian's next move. Of course, Christian only had eyes for the living.

All he saw were the villagers, the rundown houses, and the empty space where I was supposed to be.

"Elara!" Christian's voice rang out again, tinged with unconcealed fury. "Are you really this cold-blooded? To let your own sister suffer like this?"

His words were a cruel mockery of the truth.

Cold-blooded?

He was the one who banished me. She was the one who orchestrated my death.

He paused, deliberately letting the silence stretch, then continued, his tone softening to a saccharine sweetness that made me sick to my stomach.

"Listen, Elara, I know you've been through a lot. But we can fix this. I'll pave the way. I'll bring in doctors, build a clinic. Your life here will... improve. Just come back."

He spoke of money and comfort, as if my life, my love, and my death could all be bought.

"You can have your old life back," he promised, his eyes scanning the villagers, trying to gauge their reactions. "The status. The position."

Then, he delivered the most heartless insult of all.

"And the child," he added, his tone utterly devoid of warmth. "I'll treat her as if she were my own."

My own child.

The child he had just tried to kill.

The child he still refused to acknowledge as his own.

He thought he was being generous; he thought he was saving me. He genuinely believed he was making a "massive concession."

His arrogance was astounding.

Bertram, as composed as ever, stood his ground. He didn't give Christian any easy answers, nor did he yield an inch.

"Christian," Bertram began, his voice raspy. "Elara suffered greatly here. After you sent her away, she was entirely alone, utterly isolated."

"It didn't take long for some local thugs to start harassing her." Hearing those words was a bitter comfort, a soothing balm to my scarred soul.

Finally, someone was speaking the truth.

"We found her," Bertram's voice trembled. "She was lying in a field, barely clinging to life. Her body was... covered in bruises. Christian, she was violated. Beaten black and blue. And worse..."

He paused, fighting back a sob.

"She didn't make it. We buried her ourselves in the little cemetery at the edge of the woods. It was the only thing we could do for her."

Christian let out a dark chuckle.

"You expect me to believe this fairy tale? And what about the child? Let me guess, the product of Elara's lover? Just another lie to cover up her infidelity?"

His face was etched with mockery and disbelief. He still couldn't accept that I was truly dead. That it hadn't been my choice.

"The child was born the night Elara came to us," Bertram explained, his gaze unwavering. "She was pregnant when she arrived, Christian. Kaelen is your daughter. Your own flesh and blood."

"After Elara passed, we took the child in. It was our duty."

Annabelle, still clinging tightly to Christian, flinched. A flash of surprise crossed her features, followed quickly by a cold, cruel shadow sweeping over her pale face.

She knew. She had always known.

My mind instantly flashed back to that night.

The night Christian kicked me out.

The night Annabelle came to my cabin. She hadn't come to comfort me; she had come to destroy me.

I could see her again, a vicious, triumphant smirk playing on her lips. She wasn't fragile then; she was a viper. She brought three men with her. Three animals.

"My dear sister," she cooed, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "Did you really think you could have Christian? You, the one who was always destined to be second best?"

They pinned me to the floor. I wailed, my voice hoarse, consumed by terror, heavily pregnant with our child.

Annabelle slapped me hard across the face, over and over. My ears rang.

"This is for marrying him," she hissed, her eyes gleaming with insane jealousy. "This is for stealing what is mine!"

Then she grabbed my fingers and twisted violently.

She ground the heel of her shoe into my knuckles until the bones shattered. I screamed. The agony was blinding.

"He was meant to be mine!" she shrieked, her voice rough with madness.

She kicked me, her slender foot connecting with my ribs and my stomach.

I curled into a ball, trying to protect the baby in my womb, but my cries were smothered by a rough, calloused hand clamped over my mouth.

When it was over, I lay gasping on the floor, barely conscious. She leaned in close, her hot, sugary breath ghosting over my ear.

"You think this is over? You think you escaped? No, Elara. How dare you live, how dare you breathe the same air as Christian. You will pay the price."

Then, she issued her final, unforgivable order: "Kill her. Make it look like an accident. Make her suffer."

Those three men. They followed her orders. They violated me. They brutalized me.

In the dark, surrounded by pain and terror, my heart stopped beating.

My soul broke free, rising above my broken shell, watching as they tossed my lifeless body into a ditch.

Annabelle. She was the one who orchestrated my murder.

And now, here she was, lying in Christian's arms, playing the innocent victim, while her body-weakened by a real disease-was finally paying off her karmic debt.

Christian was still talking, still demanding answers, still refusing to believe I was dead.

But I knew. I knew all his efforts were in vain. My physical body was long gone.

My sweet Kaelen, my daughter, was the only mark I had left in this cruel world.