Chapter 2
1305 Words
I opened my mouth and spat blood and saliva in the direction of the voice. "What's the point of living like this? If you have the guts, kill me!"
The kidnapper, provoked beyond reason, stabbed me twice. Blood gushed out.
God had heard my plea; the blade had pierced my aorta. Finally, I could be free. A hostage who couldn't be ransomed was nothing but trash.
The kidnapper discarded me like a rag doll on the ground. My body grew colder.
I knew I was finally going to die, just as Dylan wished. But Dylan, if you knew about my death, would you be overjoyed?
After all, this was what you had been hoping for day and night. Would you... feel even a shred of heartache or regret? Probably not. But... none of that... mattered anymore. In despair, I closed my eyes...
After an unknown amount of time, I never thought I'd open them again. I found myself sitting at the dining table, just as I had left it.
The food in front of me remained untouched since I left home. I raised my hand; it was soft and delicate, my fingers slender and fair, each nail round and translucent.
I was confused. Was everything that just happened merely a bad dream?
But the pain had felt so real, the hatred so intense.
I propped myself up, trying to stand, but my hands passed through the tabletop.
Dylan returned from outside, bringing with him a wave of cold air. He seemed oblivious to my presence and sat down directly across from me.
He frowned slightly, looking at the table full of food with obvious impatience. "Why haven't these been cleared away?"
"In the evening, Amy prepared a table full of dishes. She wanted to wait for you to come back..." Seeing Dylan's gloomy expression, the servant trailed off, swallowing the rest of her words.
"Wait for what? Wait for me to come back? I'm back now, where is she? Is it funny to use a kidnapping trick to threaten me?"
I knew Dylan; this was the prelude to his temper flaring.
Not wanting to make things difficult for the servant, I reached out to clear the dishes, thinking he could take out his anger on me instead.
However, my hands couldn't touch the bowls or plates.
What was going on? I hurried towards the servant, wanting to stop her, but my hand went straight through her.
I couldn't help but let out a sardonic laugh. So I was dead, truly dead from the "kidnapping trick" he spoke of.
*****
"I... I'll go find her right away..." The servant didn't know I was dead.
She searched the entire villa, up and down, inside and out, but found nothing. She returned to the hall, her legs trembling as she faced Dylan.
"Mr. Robinson, Amy isn't home. I don't know where she went. She sent us all away in the evening. She said... she wanted some time alone..."
Dylan listened to the servant's words and raised his eyelids coldly. "Since when does she get to make the decisions in this house? Or rather, none of you want to work here anymore?"
The servant didn't dare to utter another word. I looked at him sorrowfully. When did it come to this between us? Clearly, before, we...
I met Dylan in my senior year of university. He was leaning against a tree by the roadside, his face pale, struggling to breathe. He grabbed my pants leg as I rushed to class and said, "Help me."
I was a medical student and recognized his asthma immediately.
Saving lives was the motto of every medical worker.
Without hesitation, I saved him and took him back home. I lived with my grandmother from my hometown, and for the convenience of working part-time and studying, I rented a small house near the university.
During the time I spent with Dylan, I vaguely sensed that he came from a wealthy family.
This was because not only did he not know whether to add tomatoes or eggs first when making dishes, he simply couldn't understand what color eggshells should be used for cooking.
Later, Grandma passed away. I told Dylan through tears, "I don't have a home anymore."
But he took my hand and told me, "Wherever I, am, is your home, Amy."
Yet, after my death, he said, "Since when does she get to make the decisions in this house?"
Dylan frowned and asked the servant in front of him, "What time does she usually come back?"
The servant answered timidly, "Amy never stays out all night..."
Dylan scoffed, "Tell her to stop acting. No matter what tricks she's playing, I'm getting a divorce."
He got up and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
*****
I realized I was trapped by Dylan's side; wherever he went, I followed.
I felt a sense of helplessness.
It was truly ironic.
When I loved him, I couldn't bear to be apart from him. Now that I didn't, I was forced to follow him everywhere.
I followed him into the car. He seemed agitated, pressing the accelerator to the floor as the car sped down the road.
I looked at him, puzzled. What was he so worked up about?
In the past, I was always the one waiting for him to come home. Now that I was dead, there was no one to urge him back. Why was he still unhappy?
The phone rang. I looked at the flashing name on the screen, "Kamila," and recalled a time when I accidentally saw his contact name for me, "Amy Perez."
How ridiculous. We were a legally married couple, yet even our contact names were so distant.
When I was alive, why couldn't I see it? It was clear as day.
Dylan answered the phone in a gentle voice, "Kamila..."
The car in front suddenly stopped. Dylan, without slowing down, crashed into it.
There was a loud bang, which seemed to startle Kamila on the other end of the line. "Dylan, what happened?"
Her voice was soft and delicate, making anyone who heard it want to protect her.
Dylan covered his bleeding forehead and gave a wry smile. "It's nothing, Kamila. Someone's setting off fireworks on my end."
After hanging up the phone, Dylan opened my w******p chat window. "Stop pretending. Come to the hospital. I've been in a car accident."
By the time I followed Dylan to the hospital, his finger was still hovering over my w******p chat window, naturally without a reply.
He frowned, scrolling through our chat history. Most of the messages were from me, asking if he was coming home for dinner, asking if he was coming home at all.
They were all trivial matters, and most of his replies were a simple "Okay."
But never once did he initiate a conversation that I didn't respond to.
He called home. "She hasn't returned?"
The answer came swiftly from the other end, "Mr. Robinson, Amy hasn't..."
Before the other party could finish, he hung up angrily. He clenched his phone tightly, as if it were me he was holding.
"Mr. Robinson, your injuries are not serious. Once we've bandaged you up, you can go home."
Dylan listened to the doctor's words absentmindedly, glancing at his phone every few seconds.
"Ding!" The phone notification sounded. He immediately flipped over his phone and eagerly opened it.
It was a w******p message from Kamila, asking when he would be finished and if he had time to accompany her to buy a dress.
But after reading the message, he didn't reply immediately. Instead, he switched back to my chat window and scrolled through it carefully.
He seemed to be waiting for a message from me.
This was truly a rare sight. Dylan, the powerful president, was actually waiting for a message.
- Writer
