Chapter 3 – Five Years a Phantom
646 Words
“You'll wear her perfume."
Shen Yan blinked. “It gives me migraines."
Lu Chengye didn't look up from the schedule in his hand. “So do lies."
Her jaw tightened. “And if I collapse in public?"
“Do it somewhere photogenic."
She didn't answer. Her heels clicked softly across the marble floor as she followed him into the grand gallery of the Lu estate.
Everywhere—photos of Lin Zhiwei. Laughing in Paris. Standing beside Lu at an awards ceremony. Feeding koi in the estate's inner pond.
“You're expecting me to become her."
“I expect you to play your part," he said.
“And when the curtains close?"
“You'll vanish like you should've five years ago."
—
The first year passed in rehearsals.
Shen studied Lin Zhiwei's college handwriting, practiced her smile in mirrors, memorized her food allergies, her favorite piano pieces, her scent.
Publicly, they were a power couple—she, the redeemed heiress; he, the merciful fiancé.
Privately, she was a ghost.
Lu never touched her. Never spoke to her beyond logistics. She slept in a windowless guest suite beneath the west stairwell. At events, he gripped her hand just tightly enough to bruise.
But she stayed.
Because every week, Lu's lawyers sent progress reports: Shen Industries liquidation halted, her father's trial delayed, creditors repaid in small, manageable chunks.
Her servitude was her father's oxygen.
—
In the third year, Shen collapsed after a reception.
Dr. Gao frowned at her chart. “Your arrhythmia's worsening. And your iron's nonexistent. You need rest."
“She needs discipline," Lu said, arms folded.
“She needs a pacemaker," the doctor snapped. “Or a miracle."
Shen slid off the table. “Then I'll keep walking until I find one."
That night, she curled on the cold guest bed, rereading the only real letter her father had sent before prison:
**“Survive, my little star. Don't burn out."**
She pressed the paper to her lips.
—
Year four blurred.
She managed crisis PR, ran Lu's travel schedule, corrected investor decks at midnight. She did everything but ask him why he still kept her.
Sometimes, in rare soft dawns when he returned from late meetings, she'd hear footsteps pause outside her door. But he never knocked.
Neither did she.
—
On the fifth anniversary of the gala, she found herself alone in the estate's winter garden. Snow drifted beyond the glass dome.
She stood beside the same camellia bush where Lin Zhiwei's memorial portrait had once stood.
Her chest tightened. A sharp pain lanced through her stomach. She doubled over.
“Miss Shen?" a maid gasped.
Blood soaked through Shen's silk blouse. She collapsed onto the icy marble, crimson trailing beneath her like a withering rose.
—
In the hospital, alarms screamed.
“She's coding!" a nurse shouted.
“She was pregnant—unconfirmed miscarriage—massive blood loss—"
“Heart failure—"
“Get the crash cart—"
—
Lu Chengye stood in the white corridor, tie loosened, knuckles bloodless around a clipboard.
“You're the emergency contact," the nurse whispered. “Sign the consent."
He stared at the line labeled *Next of Kin*.
Shen's name had never looked so fragile.
He signed.
—
She didn't make it through surgery.
At 4:07 AM, Shen Yan was pronounced dead.
Congenital arrhythmia, miscarriage complications, and delayed emergency care—causes listed clinically.
Lu didn't speak when they handed him her effects. He simply nodded.
No funeral. No obituary.
Just silence.
He authorized cremation.
“Dispose of the ashes," he said.
But the old chauffeur, Uncle Zhao, did not.
As the fire consumed her, Zhao tucked a single hairpin into his pocket and whispered, “Forgive him, if you can."
Outside, snow fell like ash.
Inside, Lu Chengye turned away from the blaze, believing he had buried guilt with her name.
- Writer
