Celestial Roses

Chapter 1 "Mr. Johnson Lloyd, the developer behind the entire Celestial Cemetery project, spent millions every year on religious rituals and tens of millions on charitable donations. " "As far as I know, no one fears death more than Mr. Lloyd. If you claim he committed suicide voluntarily, no one would believe it, right? " "Mrs. Lloyd?" The man wore a gold watch, a tailored suit, and exuded the aura of a nouveau riche. Compared with my late ex-husband, he was far inferior. I smiled and handed him a cup of tea. "Sir, why not have some tea and take your time?" He glanced at the cup warily and waved it away. "No. Cut the crap—two million. Will you say or not?" I sighed and poured myself a cup, drinking it in front of him. "Sir, if you don't trust me, why pay such a high price for what you call useless information? "Aren't you afraid I might just say something random to trick you?" The man frowned impatiently. "I just dropped a million to get you out. You think I can't send you right back in?!" I leisurely lit a cigarette. "Take care. I won't see you out." "You?!" The man erupted in anger, rising to his feet as if ready to grab something and smash it. I remained calm, staring at him indifferently. He stood there, frustration practically oozing from him. "Then what will it take for you to tell me?" I smiled. "Five million. Non-negotiable." "You f***ing—!" He kicked the chair violently and stormed out without looking back, cursing under his breath. "Crazy b***h! Psycho!Five million for one sentence? Insane!" I took a drag from my cigarette, smiling as I watched him leave. I knew he'd be back. My husband had been dead for seven years. The police, journalists, curious wealthy men—countless people had sought me out. Some offered huge sums, others used threats or pleas. Their goal was always the same: to get me to say that word I had with Johnson. I even confessed, claiming my husband's suicide was related to me, but I refused to disclose what I had said to him. I'd rather be arrested, detained, even spend two years in prison than say it. Until now. Three days later, he returned as expected. A bank card was tossed onto my table. "The five million you want." The man sat down, still irritated. He remained cautious, refusing to touch anything of mine. Just like last time, I offered him tea. He took it but didn't drink. Understandable—after all, everyone saw me as a murderer. A little caution wasn't unwarranted. I leaned in, and he instinctively flinched. "Sir, since you're here for the story, shouldn't I at least know who you are?" The man answered dismissively, "Eugene Wilson. A small-time director. I need a good script." I nodded in realization. "I see." "Then listen carefully." I lit a cigarette, watching the smoke rings drift farther away. Staring at the man I'd waited for seven years, I couldn't help but smile. "Here's how it all went down..."