Chapter 3

To this day, I still wondered if Nicholas deliberately took me to that dinner just to show me off to Abigail.

I wore the dress he chose, did my makeup the way he preferred, and as everyone offered their compliments, I noticed Abigail.

She was even more stunning than I had pictured—loose waves, bright eyes, red lips, every movement carried a star's grace.

While Nicholas was speaking with his business partners, she slowly approached me, looking me over from head to toe. "So you're Nicholas's girlfriend," she said. "No wonder he likes you so much. You look just like me."

I stood there, speechless.

Many people had told me that before, and I'd always taken it as a kind of praise. Looking like a famous actress—wasn't that a compliment?

But in that moment, I finally understood what it really meant.

"You know," she whispered, leaning close to my ear, "Nicholas had a crush on me for years before he met you. But back then, I chose someone else."

"He picked out award-winning scripts for me," Abigail went on, "and used his family's influence to protect my career. Now that I'm divorced… he finally has his chance."

That was when I realized—the reason Nicholas chose me all those years ago was simply that I looked too much like her.

After that dinner, Nicholas started seeing me less and less. It was as if he'd tucked me away in some forgotten corner.

Months later, he finally remembered me—only to send me a plane ticket to my death.

How could I not hate him?

Ryan's voice slowly trailed off. Having finished his work report, he was about to leave when Nicholas suddenly spoke up.

"She should have arrived by now, shouldn't she?"

An unexpected "she."

Ryan understood immediately. "Based on the flight schedule, yes, she should have."

So "she" meant me.

Nicholas fell silent. His slender fingers tapped lightly against the desk.

I knew that habit well—whenever he was thinking or uneasy, he'd unconsciously tap like that.

I moved closer, trying to read his expression.

Then I watched him pick up his phone. On the screen was our chat history.

Half an hour earlier, he'd sent me a message:

"If you ever run into trouble, you can contact Ryan."

I never took more than half an hour to reply to him.

If I hadn't died, maybe I would have answered.

Maybe I'd have said "Okay," or "Don't worry."

But I was already dead—and the dead don't reply.

"Have you heard from her recently?" Nicholas asked.

Ryan gave a slight shake of his head. "No. After I delivered the plane ticket that day, I never saw her again."

"Should I give Miss Brown a call to check on her?" Ryan ventured carefully.

Nicholas's expression turned cold and hard. He set his phone down.

"No need. From now on, don't report to me about her anymore."