Chapter2

My hands trembled as I took the makeup remover from Logan. My eyes were red.

"Hurry up! Stop playing the victim!" Logan yanked me roughly in front of the livestream camera. "The fans tipped. Wipe that shit off right now and prove that fraud is talking out of his ass!"

He had already smeared so-called "holy water" on the lens, desperate to prove to his tens of thousands of viewers that I wasn't a "vengeful spirit."

I kept my head down and pressed the soaked cotton pad to my face.

The chemical burned like battery acid on contact. I swallowed the agony, not making a single sound.

Dead skin doesn't bounce back. To maintain this perfect trophy wife shell, I burned massive amounts of energy every day hydrating it and suppressing the stench of decay.

When the last layer of concealer vanished, Logan and the chat held their breath.

My face remained flawless. Not a single corpse spot.

Logan's tense shoulders dropped.

He laughed triumphantly, pointing at the screen. "See? My wife is perfect!"

The chat flipped instantly.

[Damn, her bare face is top-tier. Streamer hit the jackpot.]

[Deacon Hale is a total fraud, just chasing clout.]

I watched Logan's smug relief and lowered my eyes.

'Fucking idiot.'

Suddenly, a blood-red comment hijacked the screen.

It was Deacon Hale.

[It's Halloween Eve! The veil is thin. Spirits temporarily regain their living perfection!]

My dead heart skipped a beat.

The half-assed psychic actually knew his shit.

Deacon's comments kept spamming the screen.

[She's a highly malicious poltergeist! Normal crosses won't work!]

[Logan Collins, what the hell did you do to her to create such a monstrous grudge?!]

That question was a bombshell. The chat exploded.

[Wait, domestic violence?]

[He had animal abuse rumors. Did he actually do some seriously fucked up shit behind closed doors?]

'What did he do?'

I felt the phantom chill creeping into my fingertips. A faint smirk touched my lips.

"Bullshit!" Logan completely lost his shit at the accusations.

"This bastard is lying!" Veins popped in his neck as he roared into the lens. "Grace is my wife! We're perfectly fine!"

He grabbed me by the hair, dragging me forcefully back to the camera.

"Look at her!" he roared, spit flying. "Do ghosts have skin like this?! Do ghosts cry?!"

I obligingly squeezed out a tear. "Logan, it hurts... let me go..."

Deacon typed again: [The disguise is weak to fire! Use a flame! It burns through the human suit!]

That triggered Logan completely.

"Fire? Fine! I'll smash this fraud's lies right now!"

He grabbed his Zippo and flicked it open.

The ghostly blue flame lunged at my cheek.

My pupils shrank.

Fire is lethal to me. It would melt my disguise instantly.

But dodging meant exposure. And I was ready.

I closed my eyes, leaning into the fire. I secretly expanded my web of resentment.

Agony pierced my cheek as the flame hit. But I opened my mouth slightly, extending invisible tendrils to aggressively siphon his life essence right through his grip on my hair.

Logan gasped, dropping the lighter.

He stumbled back, clutching his chest, his face draining of color.

"Honey, what's wrong?" I acted terrified, reaching out for him.

"Get off!" He pushed me away, panting heavily. He stared at his trembling hands.

He actually thought his rage had triggered a panic attack.

Heavy footsteps echoed.

"What the hell is going on!"

The door crashed open. Warren, my father-in-law, stood there. He ignored Logan, fixing a dead stare on me.

It was the calculating gaze of a butcher sizing up meat. I’d seen that exact look four years ago.

I lowered my head, hiding the churning black hatred in my eyes.

"Dad, Deacon is spreading rumors!" Logan wheezed.

Warren yanked the power cord from the wall.

"Childish tricks." His voice carried absolute authority.

"But my tips—"

"I said knock it off! You have a big shoot tomorrow."

Warren shot me a chilling, dead-eyed smile.

"Scared you, huh? The boy has a temper."

Before I could answer, my mother-in-law, Darlene, swept into the room in her pajamas.

"Oh my, what is all this?" Her voice was sweet, but her eyes locked onto me with pure malice.

She swept her gaze over my flawless skin, her eyes flashing with hyper-critical jealousy.

"Logan, how many times have I told you to keep it down at night."

She grabbed my hand, pretending to be gentle. Her sharp acrylic manicure dug ruthlessly into my flesh.

"Grace, you need to manage him better. A woman who can't control her household is failing."

'Failing?' I felt the sting on my hand and sneered inwardly.

'And what about you? How many bloody messes have you scrubbed away for your precious son under that perfect housewife mask?'

She aggressively starved me on her homemade "detox juices" to keep me skinny for the camera. She had no idea she was actually helping me. Dead bodies don't digest. Bloody meat fueled my ghost's bloodlust.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I whispered submissively.

"Go to sleep," Warren ordered, shooting me a dark, calculating look before walking out.

The door clicked shut. Logan paced the room, running a hand through his hair.

I hugged him from behind. "Take a hot shower, darling. Relax."

My palms pressed flat against his spine, greedily soaking up his body heat.

He shuddered. "Why are your hands so fucking freezing?" he muttered, pulling away and stepping into the bathroom.

After his shower, he crashed onto the bed. Within minutes, he was snoring heavily.

I stood by the bed, making sure he was dead to the world.

The room was silent. Without the heat and humidity of the steaming shower to mask it, my disguise rapidly began to peel away.

I looked down at my own body. A massive, purplish-black corpse spot had bloomed across my collarbone. My fingertips were turning a bruised, necrotic blue.

I stared at his sleeping face and slowly stretched my lips into a chilling, silent smile.