“Mommy… I want Mommy!”
As soon as Tristan Miller stepped through the door, his son lunged at him, crying uncontrollably.
Jessica Granger flinched, retreating a step as if startled.
Tristan’s expression darkened. He turned to the butler, voice laced with irritation. “Where is that wretched Crystal? She can’t even control a child? The stupid kid scared Jessica! If she’s that useless of a mom, there’s no use for her sticking around!”
The butler’s face paled. “Sir… Madam is still in the customized steamer.”
For a brief moment, a flicker of something crossed Tristan’s eyes—perhaps realization, perhaps hesitation. But just as quickly, it vanished. His voice was steady when he spoke again. “She made Jessica suffer. This punishment is exactly what she deserves.”
His gaze shifted to Tommy, who was still wailing, his tiny body shaking. A shadow passed over Tristan’s face. “It seems she hasn’t learned her lesson, and neither has her son. Lock him in the storage room without food for three days.”
The butler’s hands trembled. He shielded Tommy behind him, his voice pleading. “Sir, he’s just a child! Three days without food or water—he’ll die!”
Tristan scoffed. “His mother survived seven days, yet he can’t last three? Lock him up now. And if you dare try anything, you can leave too.”
Tommy had stopped crying. He stood there, mouth open, but no sound came out. His face was streaked with tears, yet his fear ran so deep that even sobbing felt dangerous.
When the butler didn’t move, Tristan’s patience snapped. But just as he was about to lash out, the butler hesitated, then spoke in a halting voice. “Sir, the room Madam was locked in… it’s been smelling foul these past few days. Sometimes, I see maggots crawling out from under the door. Maybe you should check—”
“Maggots?” Tristan’s expression twisted in disgust. He sneered. “That’s just her own filth. She probably didn’t even spare her own waste to survive. What’s a few maggots compared to that?”
His gaze turned sharp. “I see you’ve forgotten your place. Lock Tommy up now. I don’t want him anywhere near Jessica.”
My ghost watched helplessly as my son was shoved into the cramped, lightless storage room. Under Tristan’s watchful glare, he didn’t even dare to cry. He pressed his small hands over his mouth, his tiny shoulders trembling with silent sobs.
I reached for him, desperate to hold him. But no matter how I stretched out my arms, I touched nothing.
Because I was already dead.
Inside the steamer, the water had long since evaporated, leaving behind only the scorched black marks at the bottom. My body, limbs twisted in agony, lay motionless on the rack. My skin, cooked through by the relentless steam, had turned pale and waxy.
At the final moment before death, the unbearable heat, the suffocating agony—all of it vanished. My soul had slipped free from that searing prison.
Days passed. My corpse had begun to rot, its decaying flesh writhing with pale, glistening maggots. Even in this state, I still remembered it all—the suffocation, the helplessness, the slow unraveling of my life. Even in death, I could not escape it.
I drifted toward Tristan, but he could not see me. Instead, his hand rested gently on Jessica’s head.
