Shock of My Death

I used to be the most promising composer of my generation. But while I was working on my latest piece, my husband Charles Lambert's childhood friend destroyed everything I had.

She slashed my face, stole my compositions, and set fire to my house—leaving me to burn alive alongside the kitten I'd just adopted.

Then, as if my death were just a spark for her success, she posted my compositions online, claiming I'd plagiarized her.

And people believed her. Everyone did. Strangers on the internet sneered and spat my name, and my own husband, Charles, chose to believe her over me.

Even the International Musical Society rescinded my award and handed it to her without a second thought. My students, who once followed me loyally, were now fawning over her.

I became the laughingstock of the entire internet—mocked, discredited, erased.

It wasn't until a week later, when someone stumbled upon the charred remains of my lakeside studio, that they found what was left of me.

It's been a week since I died, and finally, someone found my body.

The fire had devoured everything in its path, leaving nothing behind. The authorities couldn't identify me by my belongings, so they had to wait for the DNA results to match me with missing persons reports.

Somehow, my soul drifted to where my husband, Charles Lambert was.

I thought he'd be frantic, desperate to find me after my disappearance. But the first thing I heard him say wasn't panic or grief.

"Hasn't she been hiding all this time because she feels guilty? Ari, don't be scared. When she comes back, I'll make her get on her knees and apologize to you."

His expression was cold and indifferent. But his voice—his voice was soft and gentle as he cradled Arianna Quinn, his childhood sweetheart, in his arms.

It was a tenderness he had never shown me. Not once. He could barely speak two words to me without sounding annoyed. But here he was, murmuring to her like she was the most fragile, precious thing in the world.

And this was the same man who had shamelessly clung to me, begging to marry me no matter what. Foolish orphan that I was, I believed him. I gave him everything—my heart, my trust, my life.

We had shared a love of music. We both had a great gift for music, but he struggled with composing.

I had dreams of studying abroad to hone my skills in performance. My mentor had secured me a rare spot. But Charles had persuaded me to give it all up, to abandon that dream and focus on composition instead.

"You're so gifted," he'd said. "Even if you give up this path, there will always be another. Why not become a composer? One day, when I perform, I'll play the pieces you wrote just for me. With your compositions and my performing skills, we'll be unstoppable. The audience will cheer for us. We're perfect together and destined to be celebrated!"

I believed him. I believed in that beautiful future he painted for us. So I ignored my mentor's advice, turned down the offer to study abroad, and stubbornly pursued composition.

The journey wasn't easy, but I pushed through. Eventually, I succeeded and became recognized for my compositions. Even my mentor, who had been disappointed in me for giving up the opportunity to study abroad, softened when she saw my achievements.

It wasn't until much later, during a conversation with my mentor, that I found out something shocking.

The spot that I gave up? It went to Arianna, Charles's precious little Ari. And the worst part? It was recommended in my name.

It was hard not to suspect that Charles had schemed it.

I turned to confront him, demanding answers. But all I got was his dismissive reply, "You didn't want it anyway. Giving it to someone else would've been a waste. At least this way it helps Ari. She's all alone at school, with no one to look out for her. Poor thing."

And then, like he was being the reasonable one, he added, "You're going to be my wife. You should be more generous."

He seemed to forget I was an orphan. I'd always been alone. There was no one to support me, no one who ever pitied me. I had to be strong for myself.

"Alright, stop making a fuss," he had said, brushing me off as usual. "I'm busy right now. We'll talk later when I'm free."

Busy. That's what he called it—being preoccupied with taking care of Arianna, doting on her like she was his world.

"You don't need to worry," he comforted Arianna. "If she doesn't apologize to you, I'll divorce her."

His words jolted me out of my memories.

Divorce?

I heard him continue, "Honestly, I've been wanting to divorce her for a while now. If it wasn't for her being pregnant with my child, I wouldn't bother dealing with her at all."

Pregnant?

I instinctively placed a hand on my stomach.

So that's it. I'm pregnant.

I had thought the nausea and the fatigue were just a reaction to the cat fur. I had planned to find a new home for the cat after my masterpiece was done.

But no, it wasn't the cat. I was pregnant.

It all made sense now.

Everything.

No wonder Charles had insisted on dragging me to a checkup the day before I left for my retreat at the lakeside cabin. No wonder he had been so unusually attentive during those days.

It wasn't because he cared about me.

He wanted a child.