Chapter 4

David finally opened the closet door.

It was noon the next day.

After the housekeeper finished making lunch, she habitually asked, "Mr. Miller, what about Chloe's lunch...?"

Victoria was arranging a fresh bouquet of flowers. Hearing the name, she didn't even look up. She sneered, "Let her starve to death. It saves me the headache of looking at her."

David’s brow furrowed slightly.

Without a word, he walked over to the utility closet, took out the key, and unlocked the cold brass lock.

The moment the door swung open, he froze.

Floating right behind him, I clearly saw his pupils contract with terror.

Inside the tiny closet, I was curled up in the corner. My body was stiff in an unnatural posture, my face a sickening shade of blue-purple, my lips cracked and dry.

I looked like a withered flower, forgotten in a dark corner.

"Chloe?"

David called out experimentally, his voice trembling with a hint of fear he didn't even realize he had.

He reached out, placing his fingers beneath my nose.

There was nothing. Just cold, lifeless stillness.

David’s body shook violently. He stumbled back two steps, crashing against the hallway wall. All color drained from his face.

From the living room, Victoria seemed to notice his silence. She called out impatiently, "What's wrong? Is that brat playing dead again?"

David’s lips trembled, but he couldn't make a sound.

He suddenly lunged forward, slammed the closet door shut, and locked it again. Then, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, he walked back to the living room.

"It's nothing," he said, his voice incredibly hoarse. "She's sleeping."

He didn't dare tell Victoria.

He knew that if Victoria—whose mental health was already extremely fragile—found out I had died this way inside their own home, she would completely lose her mind.

For the past three years, he had been walking a tightrope, trying desperately to keep this broken family together.

He was both an accomplice and a victim. He turned a blind eye to Victoria's abuse, yet spent his nights drinking glass after glass of whiskey in front of Lily’s portrait.

He loved Lily. And once, he had loved me too.

But that love had been completely eroded by daily arguments, his wife's endless tears, and the constant misery in the house.

Now, he just wanted to protect what was left of his marriage. He wanted to protect Victoria, his only remaining family.

Even if the price was erasing every single trace of my existence.

That afternoon, David claimed he had an urgent matter at the office and rushed out.

I followed him. I watched him drive to a hardware store in the suburbs, where he bought a brand-new shovel and several heavy-duty black trash bags.

My heart sank.

What he was about to do was obvious.

That night, after Victoria had taken her sleeping pills and fallen into a deep slumber, David unlocked the utility closet once again.

He didn't turn on the lights. Using only the faint glow of his phone screen, he struggled to stuff my cold, stiff body into the largest black trash bag.