The Call She Ignored

Eight years of being cucked by my wife, Camilla, and her male best friend, Tristan. I died under his wife's blade. Eighteen separate puncture wounds.

She bashed our tenyearold golden retriever to death against the hardwood right in front of my failing eyes.

After the slaughter, she grabbed my lifeless hand, pressing my thumb against the phone sensor.

She drafted a text to Camilla. "Hey wifey, finish up your work and come home early with Tristan.

I prepped a massive surprise for you both!" Chapter 1 Right when they were at their happiest, my soul drifted above the tangled sheets, forced to watch their slick bodies writhe in rhythm.

Camilla's screen lit up. A sickeningly sweet smile spread across her flushed face as she hit the voice memo button. "Sounds great, babe.

I literally can't wait to see what you planned." Tristan leaned back against the plush hotel pillows, hooking a proprietary arm around Camilla's bare waist with a lazy smirk. "You two have been married forever.

Is it really that deep? Just text him back after we finish. What's he gonna do?" Camilla shot him a glare.

She sparked a postcoital cigarette with practiced ease. "What do you know? Beckett is Sadie's biological father. We took vows.

If I can't even show him that basic level of consideration, what kind of wife does that make me?" Tristan chuckled, his dark gaze dropping to her collarbone.

He closed the physical distance, his rough jaw brushing her cheek as he lit his own cigarette directly from the glowing cherry of hers.

The heavy heat of their bodies mixed with the thick smoke as he let out a low, rumbling laugh. "Who would have thought?

Princess Camilla, still so obsessed with him after all these years.

But if you worship Beckett so much, why are you currently naked in my bed?" Camilla trailed her lips down Tristan's jawline, her tone dripping with tease. "You're my best friend, Tristan.

This is just scratching an itch. Don't go comparing yourself to my husband. I just hate seeing him exhausted, so I come to you.

Don't start waving red flags and catching feelings." Camilla's twisted devotion to me. Even Paige, Tristan's wife, bought into the delusion.

Forty minutes ago, Paige kicked my front door off its hinges and stabbed me right in my softest heart. "You're the only man Camilla actually loves," she hissed, twisting the hilt. "Your wife stole my husband.

Ripping you away is the only way to utterly destroy her." Meanwhile, back at the hotel, thick steam completely coated the glass shower doors.

Camilla and Tristan tangled together under the scalding water, wet skin slapping against tile for round two. In my house, Paige stood frozen in the entryway.

Her knuckles gripped the bloodsoaked knife like a predator waiting in the shadows. Camilla and Tristan checked out.

Even in the passenger seat of her SUV, they devoured each other, mouths fused together. The digital clock ticked down. Finally, the electronic keypad on my front door beeped.

Three sharp chimes. The heavy oak swung open, and Paige hoisted the blade. But it wasn't Camilla. It wasn't Tristan. It was Sadie. My little girl, just dropped off from PreK.

The moment the door squeaked wide, a violent tremor ripped through my ethereal form. The fog in my dead brain suddenly cleared. The keys in my hand. The jacket by the door.

I had been leaving to pick Sadie up. I threw my translucent body in front of her tiny frame. "Sadie, run! Don't look!

Run!" Meeting dead silence, I realized she couldn't see my transparent form, nor could she hear my desperate screams.

Her wide, innocent eyes locked onto the butcher's shop on the hardwood floor. Onto my mutilated remains, and then up to Paige's twisted, bloodsplattered grin.

A piercing shriek tore from Sadie's throat. Her crayon family portrait and pink bunny thermos clattered against the floorboards as she spun to flee.

Paige's hand shot out, yanking her off the ground. Chapter 2 Sadie wailed. A raw, terrified shriek.

Paige slapped her across the face. "Shut your mouth, you little brat!" The brutal force dislodged several loose baby teeth.

Crimson blood instantly pooled on my daughter's bottom lip. "You and your pathetic father are useless," Paige snarled. "If either of you were worth a damn, your wife wouldn't be busy screwing my husband!" My soul screamed silently.

I launched myself at Paige. Fists swinging. Knees driving into her ribs. But my phantom limbs just phased through her solid flesh.

The shock of my own sudden butchering finally shattered the numbness. "Let her go!" I roared, clawing at the empty air. "Camilla and Tristan are the ones who betrayed you!

Why punish us? Go after them! Kill them!" The sheer force of my rage rippled into the physical world. A sharp, icy draft swept through the bloodstained hallway. Paige dropped Sadie.

My little girl had already wet herself from the terror.

Paige tilted her head, a twisted smirk aimed directly at my mutilated corpse. "Beckett," she whispered. "I just thought of a much more entertaining game." She dragged Sadie toward the heavy oak dining table.

Thick nylon rope coiled around tiny wrists and ankles, binding her tight to the chair.

Paige snatched a handful of unwashed socks from the laundry basket on the balcony, ramming them deep into Sadie's mouth. My daughter's face flushed a violent, suffocating purple.

Not a single whimper escaped. Then, Paige emptied out all the food in the refrigerator, leaving no hope at all. Paige snatched up my cracked phone again.

Her thumbs danced across the bloodsmeared screen. "Hey babe, Sadie and I had a sudden emergency. Had to drive back to my hometown upstate! Won't be back for a week!

Take your time coming home! Just focus on your work!

Catch you next Monday for that massive surprise I prepped!" The moment she hit send, Paige cruelly dangled the glowing screen mere inches from my glazed, dead eyes. "Let's make a bet, Beckett.

Will your beloved wife spot the red flag and rush back up here to save your precious daughter?

Or will she keep riding my husband for another seven days, only coming home to collect two rotting corpses?" A bizarre, heavy wave of relief washed over my transparent chest.

Paige just made a fatal, glaring mistake. I don't have a hometown. Camilla and I grew up together in the local orphanage. Side by side, sharing everything until we were twelve.

Until her obscenely wealthy family tracked her down, pulling her out of the dirt and turning her into a billionaire heiress overnight.

On our wedding day, she went all out to erase my lifelong trauma.

She dropped a massive fortune on a toptier tech firm, using my facial structure to AIgenerate the parents I never knew—Steven and Sandra.

She even beamed their holographic projections straight into the chapel to witness our vows. My phantom gaze pierced through the hardwood floorboards.

Camilla's black SUV just pulled up to our gated driveway. The second she read the word "hometown," the alarm bells should have rung.

She would instantly know I was being impersonated. She would rush upstairs. Even if she had to brawl with Paige, my little girl would have a fighting chance.

She wouldn't be left to slowly starve to death in this slaughterhouse.

Chapter 3 But the second Camilla read the text, she just locked her screen. "Beckett says he's taking Sadie back to his hometown for a week.

Looks like you get all of me for the next seven days." She hooked a finger under Tristan's chin, pulling him into a heavy, openmouthed kiss.

Raw, unquenched lust burned in her eyes. She didn't even dig into where this "hometown" I mentioned was. She completely ignored the glaring red flags in my outofcharacter texts.

She just typed out a quick, sweet reply: "I'll miss you, babe." Then she yanked the steering wheel hard, pulling a screeching Uturn straight back to the hotel.

Throughout our eight years of marriage, Camilla appeared to be the absolute perfect wife on paper. She catered to my every need.

She remembered all my tastes and little quirks, and constantly provided me with the emotional support I craved.

Holidays meant massive wire transfers, limitededition Rolexes, and keys to brandnew sports cars.

Two years ago, when a car wreck shattered my legs, she literally dropped to her knees in the ICU hallway, begging the doctors.

She sobbed, swearing she'd spoonfeed me for the rest of my life even if I woke up braindead. Everyone in our circle swore Camilla loved me more than she loved herself.

But she could never cut the toxic cord tying her to Tristan. They were constantly spotted together, fueling online gossip pages that shipped them as a power couple.

Even when I physically caught them tangled in the sheets. Multiple times. "We're both married, Beckett.

We're just best friends blowing off some steam," Camilla would lie straight to my face without batting an eye. "This is just a workout.

We're practicing so we can perform better for our actual spouses." I threw the divorce papers at her more times than I could count.

Every single time, she'd cry, swear on her life she'd change, and promise to cut him off. But she only ever got better at hiding her tracks.

Locking down secret burner phones and booking secluded Airbnbs. So, three months ago, when I tracked her location to yet another motel room with Tristan, I snapped.

But I didn't scream. I didn't confront her. I didn't even flinch. I went completely numb.

I had quietly hired an offshore wealth management firm and had set up an ironclad trust fund in the Cayman Islands under Sadie's name.

Bit by bit, I started liquidating the sports cars and draining the joint accounts, funneling every single cent Camilla ever gave me overseas. I just needed a little more time.

The plan was to grab Sadie and vanish from Camilla's twisted universe forever. I never imagined I'd bleed out on my own floor, mere inches from true freedom.

Slaughtered by Tristan's deranged wife. The blade tore through my chest so fast, my vocal cords couldn't even push out a dying scream.

Paige had chased Tristan for eight brutal years, had married him for five, and had drained her own soul and bank accounts to keep him happy.

Yet Tristan had the absolute audacity to publicly grope Camilla at Diane's funeral. At his own motherinlaw's burial. I knew right then that Paige was a ticking time bomb.

I just never expected I would be the primary target of her explosive psychotic break. It got dark then bright, bright then dark. Two days evaporated into the suffocating silence.

Tied tight to the dining chair, Sadie finally wrenched her bruised, bloody little wrists free from the nylon ropes.

Chapter 4 For fortyeight agonizing hours, Sadie cycled through absolute hell. Weeping. Passing out. Thrashing against the brutal nylon ropes.

Deep into the second night, she threw her tiny body against the restraints one last time. The heavy oak dining chair overbalanced. It slammed against the hardwood.

Sadie’s head bounced off the floorboards. The sheer force knocked her unconscious, but the violent impact dislodged the makeshift gag.

The filthy socks tumbled from her bruised lips. She gasped. Desperate, ragged pulls of oxygen filling her burning lungs. "Mommy… Daddy…" she whimpered into the dark.

Yet, miles away, her biological mother, Camilla, was blissfully tangling her bare limbs with her male best friend.

Two days later, Sadie finally wormed her way free from the wreckage of the chair. But the terror and starvation had completely hollowed her out. Her legs gave out instantly.

She couldn't stand. She dragged her tiny frame across the floorboards. Her bare knees scraping through the thick, tacky streaks of my dried blood.

Inch by inch, she crawled toward my dropped phone. At that moment, the phone only had five percent battery left. She used the speed dial I had taught her to call Camilla.

First attempt. Straight to voicemail. Second attempt. Straight to voicemail. The screen dimmed. The battery drained down to a sliver.

Sadie's tiny window of survival was rapidly closing. On the third try, Camilla finally picked up.

She couldn't completely mask the breathless irritation in her voice. "Babe, I'm kinda tied up right now. Can whatever this is wait?" "Mommy…" Sadie croaked.

Her vocal cords were completely shredded, barely producing a fragile whisper. Camilla paused. She softened her tone as much as possible. "Sadie, sweetie! Mommy misses you so much!

Be a good girl and play with Daddy for a few more days, okay? I'll see you on Monday!" "Mommy, Sadie's tummy hurts.

Sadie's so thirsty." The fiveyearold coughed, her glazed eyes locking onto my mutilated corpse. "Daddy melted. Mommy, please come home…" Sadie was only five.

Her innocent brain couldn't process the concept of death—to her, the massive pool of coagulated blood spreading from beneath my chest just looked like a spilled strawberry smoothie.

Camilla entirely missed the glaring red flag. "Aww, be a good girl. Mommy's super busy with work. If you're hungry, go find Daddy!" She cooed. "And don't eat melted ice cream!

Make Daddy buy you a fresh one!

Love you, sweetie!" With a cold click, Camilla abruptly ended the call, and my phone screen flickered one last agonizing time before dying completely.

Plunging the living room back into pitch black. Back in the hotel room. Camilla and Tristan lay tangled in the messy sheets, lighting up their postcoital cigarettes.

She seemed to remember something. She frowned, grabbing her phone and hitting my contact. "The number you have dialed is currently powered off…" Her expression darkened.

She hit redial. The same robotic voicemail. Camilla crushed her cigarette into the glass ashtray.

She scrambled out of bed, snatching her slip dress from the floor. "No, I need to go home and check. Beckett's phone is dead!

And Sadie sounded really weird just now!" A tiny, desperate spark of hope ignited in my phantom chest. If she left right now. If she drove fast.

Sadie might actually survive this nightmare.

Tristan's large hand shot out, grabbing Camilla by the arm. "It's just a dropped call," he scoffed. "What's the big deal?" Chapter 5 "He probably just took her somewhere fun and forgot to charge it," Tristan brushed it off. "If you're so paranoid, just shoot him a text.

Your husband and my wife are finally out of town. Can't we just enjoy this entire week to ourselves?" Camilla hesitated. She dropped her slip dress back onto the floor.

She grabbed her phone and opened iMessage. "Babe, why is your phone dead? Sadie just called me. Is everything okay?" The typing bubble popped up instantly.

A second later, a few random photos of an airport terminal loaded on the screen. "All good. Taking Sadie out to clear our heads. She was messing with my phone again.

Gotta go, flight's taking off." Paige had specifically cloned my messaging app to her own phone before leaving the crime scene.

She typed those exact lies while sitting in her pitchblack kitchen, rhythmically dragging a whetstone across a hunting knife.

She wanted to maintain the perfect illusion that I still drew breath. To guarantee the absolute maximum psychological damage when Camilla finally discovered my rotting corpse.

Yet, those glaringly obvious, loopholeridden texts actually put Camilla at ease. She sank right back into the plush hotel mattress.

She hooked her arm back around Tristan's shoulder. "You were right. My husband took my daughter on a trip.

It's just you and me for the next seven days." For the next few days, Camilla and Tristan completely lost their minds.

They spent at least twelve hours a day tangled in those sheets.

Camilla texted me 'good morning' and 'good night' every single day, and Paige diligently replied with stock landscape photos.

Half of those images still had visible stock photo watermarks slapped across them, but Camilla never once suspected a thing. At first, I prayed she would catch the red flags.

I begged the universe to make her rush home and save our little girl. But now, my soul could only linger around my dying daughter in numb, suffocating desperation.

Camilla wasn't blind to the inconsistencies. She was just too addicted to the raw thrill Tristan provided. She actively chose the delusion.

On Friday, Paige texted Camilla a photo of Sadie's crayon family portrait. The exact same drawing dropped on the floor the day I was butchered.

Genuine tears welled in Camilla's eyes. She immediately decided to get that exact drawing tattooed directly over her heart. Tristan went with her to the parlor.

Right when the artist, Phoenix, started inking my figure, Tristan snipped a strand of his own hair and had Phoenix mix it into the black ink plunging into Camilla's chest.

Camilla called him a shameless bastard. But she didn't stop him. Monday finally rolled around.

Camilla texted me a mirror selfie of the fresh ink, adding that she couldn't wait for my 'massive surprise.' Meanwhile, Paige already had her freshly sharpened hunting blade pressed flush against the throat of Tristan, who had arrived home first.

On the phone, Paige texted Camilla, urging her to hurry upstairs. Zero hesitation. Camilla pushed open our front door, designer gift bags swinging from her wrists.

A suffocating wall of putrid stench slammed into her face. The force of it physically knocked her backward.

What met her eyes was my badly mutilated corpse, and my tiny daughter, curled into a tight ball in my arms. Chapter 6