Review of the Dead

Seven years. That’s how long it’s been since Milo died. Now, I’m the pampered pet of the man who killed him. The tabloids call me shameless.

They say I’m a gold digger, obsessed with Killian’s money, desperate for a slice of his empire. They think I spread my legs for power. But Killian doesn’t know the truth.

I clawed my way into his bed. I endured every humiliation. Not for his money. Not for a title. I only want one thing. His life. Seven years ago, Milo smiled on stage.

That was his only crime. It made Tiffany jealous. Killian’s precious childhood sweetheart couldn’t handle the attention not being on her. To make her smile? Killian gave the order.

They pinned Milo down. Forced his jaw open. Poured concentrated sulfuric acid down his throat. Liquid fire. It didn’t just burn. It melted him from the inside out.

His vocal cords dissolved. His stomach perforated. He died a shapeless, agonizing mess. And as he writhed in the dirt, gasping for air that wouldn't come?

They laughed. "Disgusting," they sneered. Killian. You think you won? This game is paid for in blood. And it’s only just beginning.

Chapter 1 Killian’s little princess is back in the States. For the last month, my phone has been dead silent. No calls. No texts. Just a cold, digital void.

But Killian is everywhere else. The internet is flooded with paparazzi clips. Killian and Tiffany, arm in arm at galas, charity dinners, the opera. And under every video?

A sea of hate directed straight at me. "A knockoff is just a knockoff. You can wear the same dress, honey, but you’ll never be the real thing." "The Southern Heiress is back.

Tiffany and Killian are endgame. Elena’s expiration date just hit." "Haven’t seen Elena desperate for camera time lately.

Guess the billionaire finally dumped the trash." I scroll through the venom. My face is blank. I open my own feed and upload a single photo. The gloss of a brandnew plastic card.

My newly minted Scuba Instructor Certification. The notification count instantly explodes. "Wow! Elena, you’re amazing! Goals!" Then, the reality check. "Don’t be naive.

It’s a thirst trap. Everyone knows Killian is obsessed with deep diving. He hasn’t touched her in weeks, so she’s pulling stunts to get his attention." "Exactly.

You girls are blind. She’s just a pickme. If you’re so empowered, why do you only learn things that get a man hard?" "Elena has looks and brains. Her cert stack is taller than me.

Way better than that nepobaby Tiffany." "People forget Tiffany got held back a year in college because she failed everything. Money buys degrees, I guess." "Killian is blind.

He’s trading a diamond for a piece of glass." The defenders are few. The ones calling me a "homewrecker" are the majority. They aren’t wrong. I am a homewrecker.

I am a meticulously crafted weapon designed to sever the bond between Killian and Tiffany. I am here to ruin them. To please Killian, I became a machine. Mountaineering. Skiing.

Skydiving. Le Cordon Bleu culinary techniques. Baking. Clinical nutrition. I passed them all. Every certificate is a ticket. A transaction. It buys me a few hours of his time.

A night in his bed. A moment to get close enough to strike. Quantity over quality. I need them all. Chapter 2 Five years. I have carved myself into the shape of his shadow.

I’ve been his belay partner on sheer cliff faces. His souschef in the kitchen. His adrenaline junkie in the sky. And in bed? I’ve been his fantasy. Compare that to Tiffany.

The heiress who knows only how to throw tantrums and dissolve into weaponized tears. It’s simple biology. Women are drawn to power. But men? They’re addicted to competence.

Midnight strikes. The lock clicks. Killian is here. He brings the cold wind in with him, along with the sharp, oaky sting of expensive scotch. I don’t hesitate.

I launch myself into his arms, a picture of pure, unadulterated joy. My cheek presses against the hard wall of his chest.

Within seconds, I force the tears to rise, soaking the expensive fabric of his shirt. "You came," I whisper, looking up with wide, wet eyes. "Why didn't you call?

I wasn't ready." I’m lying. I know exactly why he’s here. My scuba photo did its job. It was a catalyst. My fans—bless their misguided hearts—swarmed Tiffany’s social media.

They told her to keep a tighter leash on her man. For the first time, someone dared to trespass on the Princess’s digital lawn. Tiffany didn't handle it well. She went nuclear.

She posted a screenshot of her texts with Killian. A public ultimatum: Destroy Elena’s career, or the wedding is off. So, Killian is standing here for one reason. To cut me loose.

But, Killian… Can you really bring yourself to do it? "Elena," his voice is rough, gravel grinding against glass. "We’re done. This ends tonight." My body goes rigid.

A calculated freeze. Slowly, I uncurl my fingers from his lapels. I take one step back. Then two. I put physical space between us. And then. I smile.

The corners of my eyes are red, burning with heldback sobs, but the smile is fixed. A tragic, foolish curve of the lips. "Okay." One word. No screaming. No begging. No accusations.

Killian blinks. His brows—those sharp, arrogant brows—knit together in confusion.

This isn't the script he expected. "The apartment is yours," he says quickly, trying to regain his footing. "And I’ve transferred a sum to your account.

It’s enough to keep you comfortable for the rest of your life." I nod. A single tear escapes, tracking hot down my cheek. "Mhm." He shifts his weight. The guilt is eating him alive.

I can see it in the set of his jaw. "What else?" he presses. "Name it. If it’s within my power, it’s yours." I open my mouth, then close it. I hesitate.

When I finally speak, my voice is wrecked. Salt and sandpaper. "You’ve given enough.

I don’t dare ask for more." He steps closer, needing to fix this, needing to buy his absolution. "Just say it, Elena. Anything." That’s the cue. I let the dam break.

Tears spill over, fast and silent. I bite my lower lip until I taste copper, shaking my head. I stand there, trembling, a portrait of fragile resilience.

Finally, I choke out the words. "I… I just registered for the CPA exams.

I’m thinking about law school, too." I look at the floor, refusing to meet his eyes. "I don’t want to be in the spotlight anymore. I want a normal job.

A corporate job." I take a ragged breath. "If… and only if… I pass the interviews and get through HR on my own merits… would you let me work at your headquarters?" I look up at him now, desperate. "Just a lowlevel clerk.

The bottom of the ladder. I promise, I won’t tell a soul about us. I won’t ever appear in front of Tiffany." I grab his sleeve, my grip weak. "I just need the chance to see you.

Even from a distance. Even if it’s just catching a glimpse of you walking into an elevator once a month. That’s enough.

That’s all the hope I need to keep breathing." My voice drops to a whisper. "Killian… please?" Chapter 3 I am begging.

I have stripped myself of all pride, serving my heart up on a silver platter for him to stomp on. Killian freezes. His eyes, usually cold steel, are rimmed with red. "I’ll be good.

I’ll be invisible." My voice trembles, thin and brittle. "Just this one thing, Killian. I promise I won’t upset Tiffany. I know she’s the one you actually care about.

If she’s unhappy, you’re unhappy." I look up at him, eyes wide and hollow. "And I never want to be the reason you’re unhappy." Silence. Then, my body betrays me.

A sudden wave of exhaustion hits me like a physical blow. The room tilts. Gravity doubles. My knees buckle. I don’t hit the floor.

I collapse into the hard warmth of Killian’s chest. Clara appears in the doorway. Perfect timing.

She’s crying, wiping her hands on her apron, her voice pitching up in distress. "Sir! Thank God. Elena… she waits for you every night. She refuses to eat dinner unless you’re here.

She’s starving herself." Clara steps closer, frantic. "And the nightmares. She screams your name, Sir.

Begging you not to leave her." "I wanted to call you," Clara sobs. "But she wouldn't let me.

She said she didn't want to be a burden." Clara points a shaking finger at me. "She’s sick, Sir. The depression… it’s eating her alive.

Last week…" Clara chokes on the words. "Last week she took a razor to her wrist." Darkness is closing in on my vision. But just before I black out, I feel it.

His rough thumb finds the raised, jagged ridge of scar tissue on my wrist. He shudders. A long, heavy exhale brushes against my hair. I know that sound.

He isn't going anywhere tonight. When I open my eyes, the room is dim. Killian is sitting by the bed. He isn't looking at me. He’s staring at the wall. My shrine.

I covered the entire wall with photos of him. Stolen moments I captured over the last five years. Killian in profile, scaling a cliff face.

Killian in his wetsuit, water dripping from his lashes. Killian frowning at a contract, brow furrowed in concentration. It’s a monument to my obsession.

A visual scream of how important he is to me. And on the back of every photo, I wrote to him. My Lo, I miss you. My Lo, I love you. My Lo, when will I see you again?

His fingers are currently tracing the ink on one of the photos. He looks devastated. He can’t do it. He can’t break up with me.

He can’t handle the guilt of abandoning a broken thing. I sit up slowly.

I slide my arms around his waist from behind, pressing my face between his shoulder blades. "Killian," I whisper. "I'm okay.

Really." I tighten my grip, just a fraction. "Don't listen to Clara. She worries too much.

I can take care of myself." I bury my face in his shirt. "My body just gave out for a second. I wasted your time.

You should go back to her." I feel his muscles tense under my hands. "I won't make you unhappy. I'll leave. Soon.

Just… just give me a little time." My voice breaks. "Just a little time to fix myself. I promise, I’ll get it together.

I’ll stop being like this…" The tears come again, hot and fast, soaking through the thin cotton of his shirt, burning his skin. Chapter 4 He spins around.

Before I can react, he yanks me against him.

The impact knocks the breath out of me. "Silly girl," he murmurs into my hair. "Where would you go without me?" His grip tightens, possessive and heavy. "You’re trying to push me away?

You should be begging me to stay." He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes dark. "I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever." I look up at him, feigning shock.

I let the tears fall, confused and grateful, dampening my cheeks. Killian smirks. He lifts a hand, his thumb brushing away the moisture with arrogant tenderness.

Then, he lowers his head and claims my mouth. It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s a seal of ownership. My hands, originally pushing against his chest, slowly slide up.

I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the lie. We sleep until the sun cuts through the blinds. The peace is shattered by my phone buzzing on the nightstand.

Tiffany. I don’t hesitate. I answer and immediately hit Speaker.

Her voice shrills through the room, sharp enough to cut glass. "Is Killian with you?!" She doesn't wait for an answer. "Tell him if he isn't standing in front of me in thirty minutes, we are done!

Do you hear me? Done!" Click. The silence that follows is deafening. I sit up, clutching the sheet to my chest, my face drained of color.

I look at Killian with wide, panicked eyes. "I… I'll get your clothes." I scramble out of bed, grabbing his discarded shirt from the floor.

My hands are shaking. "The driver is downstairs. I'll tell him to speed. I can make you a coffee and a bagel to go, you can eat on the way…" I don’t finish the sentence.

Killian reaches out, grabs me by the waist, and drags me back. He pulls me onto his lap, trapping me in his arms. My face burns.

His large hand covers mine, stilling my tremors. "Why are you panicking?" He scoffs, his voice low and unbothered. "You’re acting like I’m terrified of her." I freeze, blinking at him.

I inject a dose of insecurity into my gaze. "But…" "I’m sick of her," he interrupts, his tone icy. "Compare her tantrums to your gentleness?

There’s no contest." "But she’s the heiress," I whisper, looking down. "Aren't you afraid she’ll actually cancel the engagement?" Killian laughs. It’s a cold, cruel sound. "Relax.

She doesn't have the guts." He leans back, running a hand down my spine. "The Sutton family relies on my capital to survive. I should have reminded her of her place sooner.

But regarding the engagement… I wouldn't have let you get so upset." I search his face.

I let hope flood my expression, making my eyes sparkle. "Killian… does this mean you aren't throwing me away?" He smiles, the corner of his lip curling up.

He ruffles my messy hair, like he’s petting a loyal golden retriever. "I gave you five million dollars and you didn't smile like this.

You really love me that much?" I nod vigorously. Fresh tears of 'joy' prick at the corners of my eyes. "Yes!

I love you more than anyone, Killian!" I bury my face in my neck to hide my smile. Mhm. The one I love most… is you, Milo. "I told you," he adds, firm. "The title of Mrs.

Sterling belongs to you. That hasn't changed." Chapter 5 My brother. Milo. Seven years ago, he died inside an opera house owned by Killian.

It was a private theater, built specifically for Tiffany. Killian’s grandmother, Millicent, was obsessed with traditional opera.

To curry favor with the matriarch, Tiffany decided she wanted to learn the art. She needed a teacher. Milo got the invitation. I still remember the day he left.

He stood at the door, his smile bright, unaware he was walking into his own grave. "The student is the heiress of the Sutton family," he told me, adjusting his collar. "They say she’s generous.

One lesson pays for your entire year of tuition, Elena. If I can impress her, maybe she’ll book a full course." He patted my head. "Then I can buy you that princess dress.

And those sparkly glass slippers you wanted." He paused, eyes twinkling. "Tomorrow is your birthday.

What else do you want?" I grabbed his arm, swinging it back and forth, childish and greedy. "A teddy bear! The big fluffy kind." I waited all night, heart full of anticipation.

Milo came back. And so did the bear. But Milo was a corpse. And the bear was a melted, blackened lump of synthetic fur, fused together by sulfuric acid.

That night, I lost everything. I became an orphan. And I learned the name Killian. There is a cruel irony in names. My brother was Milo.

In my private, twisted shorthand for Killian, I call him "My Lo." Two names. Similar sounds. One fate.

One murderer. "Why do you write it like this?" Killian’s voice pulls me back to the present. He is holding me, his body heat enveloping mine like a cage.

But his eyes—sharp, predatory—are fixed on the wall of photos. Specifically, the backs of them. Every handwritten note starts with the same two syllables. My Lo. Not Killian.

Not Darling. My Lo. I know exactly what I’m doing