Your Mistress Texted My Dead Body Chapter 1

I died in the quietest way possible.

After finishing a batch of the caramel puddings Daniel loved so much, I lay down on the recliner in the living room to catch my breath. I closed my eyes, and they simply never opened again.

There were so many things I still wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him that I didn't hate him anymore. I wanted to tell him I’d finally forgiven him for the blurred lines and whispered secrets he shared with his assistant, Tiffany. But those words, like my breath, vanished into the ether.

They say everything ends when you die, but my soul felt glued to the floorboards of this house. I watched as Daniel walked through the door, carrying a bag of warm sweet potato chips, with Tiffany trailing right behind him like a shadow.

"Daniel, honey," she chirped, her voice dripping with calculated sweetness. "Your wife just sent me another text calling me a homewrecker. She told me to go kill myself… maybe I should just leave. I don’t want to be the reason your marriage falls apart."

Daniel looked at my closed eyes, and the flicker of concern in his gaze vanished, replaced by a cold, hard crust of disgust.

"Claire, for God’s sake, when is this performance going to end? Tiffany is just here to pick up some files. Can’t you be an adult for once?"

From the moment my body began to grow cold, he did nothing but scold me. He had no idea that later, he would sit beside my corpse, sobbing, begging me to open my eyes—begging for just one word.

It reminded me of being a little girl. My mother had packed a suitcase and walked out after a petty argument, leaving me an orphan in all the ways that mattered. I realized then, as I watched him now, that no matter how much I grew up, I never learned the secret of how to make someone stay when they already have one foot out the door.

* * *

Daniel stood over me, venting his frustrations for several minutes. When I didn't snap back or offer a sarcastic remark, he finally let out a long, jagged sigh. The sharp edge of his anger softened into something resembling pity.

He knelt down and gently tucked the bag of sweet potato chips—still warm from his coat pocket—into my hand.

"Stop being stubborn," he said, his voice dropping into that low, persuasive tone he used when he wanted to fix things. "I waited in line forever for these. They’re still hot. You’ve been craving them from that place downtown for weeks, haven't you? Get up and eat them before they get cold."

The paper bag was warm, but my palm was a frozen wasteland. I couldn't feel a thing.

Daniel noticed how cold my hand was, and his brow furrowed. He stood up, went into the bedroom, and returned with a heavy wool throw. He draped it over me, tucking the edges around my shoulders with a practiced tenderness that broke my ghostly heart.

He disappeared into the kitchen, the sound of running water filling the silence.

"I’m pouring you some warm water," he called out. "Drink it. It'll help that cough."

I heard the clink of a glass. His voice took on a rhythmic, domestic quality, as if he were planning a future that still existed.

"After the New Year, I’m clearing my schedule. I’m taking you down to the coast for a few weeks. The air is cleaner there, warmer. This cough of yours isn’t getting better, and the sea breeze will do your lungs some good. We’ll just watch the waves. Whatever you want."

I hovered in the air, watching the silhouette of the man I loved moving in the kitchen. My eyes burned with the ghost of tears I could no longer shed.

It’s too late, Daniel.

Tiffany stood by the sofa, her eyes burning with a manic jealousy. She hadn't expected this. She thought my "silent treatment" would infuriate him, but instead, it had brought out a side of Daniel she couldn't control—the side that still belonged to me.

While Daniel’s back was turned, Tiffany crept toward my recliner. She reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my phone. It didn't take her long to guess the passcode—it was Daniel’s birthday. Her fingers flew across the screen, tapping out a message and setting a timer. Then, she slipped my phone into her own designer handbag.

A second later, a blood-curdling scream ripped through the living room.

"Ah!"

Tiffany grabbed the heavy crystal ashtray from the coffee table and slammed it against her own forehead. Blood erupted instantly, dark and viscous, trailing down her pale face.

"What happened?!"

Daniel rushed out of the kitchen, water splashing from the glass in his hand. He found Tiffany collapsed on the floor, clutching her head, weeping hysterically.

"Daniel... oh my god..." she sobbed, pointing a trembling finger at my motionless form. "She just... she snapped! She hit me with the ashtray! She called me a whore and told me she’d kill me if I didn't leave right now!"

Daniel’s face went white, then a terrifying shade of red. He lunged toward me, his hand reaching out to grab my shoulder.

"Claire! Have you lost your mind? She’s just a kid! How could you do this?"

Just as his fingers were about to bruise my dead skin, a ding echoed from his pocket.

Tiffany shrieked, "Look! Look at your phone! I bet she’s texting more threats! She was just holding her phone a second ago—she’s faking it, Daniel! She’s faking the whole thing!"

Daniel froze. He pulled out his phone. A message sat on the screen from "Wife."

[If that bitch doesn't get out of my house, I’ll kill myself and make sure everyone knows it was your fault.]

The veins in Daniel’s hand popped; his knuckles turned a ghostly white. He looked up at me, the last shred of warmth in his eyes evaporating into a towering, murderous rage.

"Fine," he whispered, a terrifying, jagged laugh escaping his throat. "Fine, Claire. You want to use death as a threat just to get your way? You think you can hold me hostage with your drama?"

He raised his hand.

Splash.

The warm water he had poured for my throat hit me full in the face. Droplets rolled down my graying cheeks, soaking my eyelashes and the wool blanket he had so carefully tucked around me moments ago. I didn't flinch. I didn't blink.

"Still acting?"

Daniel’s fury reached a breaking point. He snatched the bag of chips from my hand and hurled them into the trash can.

"Fine. You want to play dead? Then stay here and play your little game until you're bored. I’m done."

He turned, hoisting Tiffany up from the floor. He didn't look back at me once. His voice was thick with loathing.

"Come on, Tiffany. Let’s get you to the ER. We’re spending the rest of the holiday at the office. Let her rot in her own madness."

The front door slammed with such force the chandelier rattled.

I drifted in the empty air, looking at my wet face and the discarded chips in the trash.

Daniel, I wasn't playing.

I’m really gone.