She Inherited My Boyfriend

Death feels like floating. Turns out that's actually true. I'm hanging near the ceiling, looking down at the restaurant where I spent two years of my life. Should be empty by now, but table 18 has candles still burning.

I died three days ago. Car crash. I was racing back to surprise Zane for his birthday. Now here I am, watching my entire world get replaced in real time.

I drift over to table 18. Our spot. First date, weekly after-hours dinners, all our big moments happened right here.

Two wine glasses sit abandoned, red stains bleeding into the white tablecloth. Zane's leather bracelet—the one I saved up three paychecks to buy him—lies tossed next to a pair of stilettos that definitely aren't mine.

"Where'd you put the rest of her stuff?" A woman's voice floats out from the kitchen. Brielle. She steps into view, running fingers through her hair.

"Manager's office," Zane calls back. "No one bothers checking in there."

The rest of my stuff. My spare uniform, the cardigan I kept for cold nights, the little things that made his office feel like ours.

Brielle walks closer to the candles, and my heart stops. She's wearing my pink cardigan. The soft cashmere one I ate ramen for a month to afford.

"This is actually super cute." She tugs at the sleeves. "Harper had decent taste."

Had. Past tense already.

Zane appears from the kitchen, shirt half-buttoned, hair a mess. He watches her model my clothes like it's perfectly normal.

"Keep it," he says, shrugging. "Everything else can go to Goodwill."

Goodwill. Two years of my life, and I'm getting donated like old furniture.

Next thing I know, Zane's pushing her against the prep counter. The same steel surface where we used to sneak kisses between orders. Now he's got her pressed there, his hands finding her waist exactly like they used to find mine.

"You sure about this?" Brielle whispers, but her fingers are already working his shirt buttons. My cardigan slips off her shoulders, pooling pink around her feet.

"Harper's gone." His voice is rough against her neck. "Time to move on."

Move on. Three days, and he's already moved on.

His mouth crashes into hers—hungry, desperate. Nothing like the gentle way he used to kiss me. This is different. Raw. Like he's trying to burn something away.

Brielle melts into him, her hands tangling in his hair. The same hair I used to stroke when work stressed him out, when he couldn't sleep, when he needed me.

"I've been wanting this since day one," she breathes against his lips.

He lifts her onto the counter, stepping between her legs. That counter where I used to sit during slow afternoons, swinging my feet while he counted the till. Where he taught me to julienne vegetables properly. Where we shared stolen snacks and inside jokes.

Now it's her stage.

His hands slide up her thighs. She gasps, throws her head back, and I see her throat—smooth, perfect, unmarked. Not like mine probably was after the crash.

"God, you're gorgeous," he tells her.

Gorgeous. He used to call me beautiful, but quietly, like he wasn't sure he deserved to say it. With her, it sounds confident. Sure.

Brielle's fingers work at his belt, urgent, impatient. "I need you," she whispers. "Please."

knows exactly what to say, exactly how to sound. Breathless but not desperate. Wanting but not needy. Like she's done this dance a hundred times before.

His hands map her body like he's memorizing every inch. Each touch erases me a little more. Every kiss writes over our history.

"Right here?" He glances around the kitchen.

"Right here." She pulls him closer. "I don't care who sees."

I care. I'm seeing everything. Watching him screw another woman in the place we fell in love, three days after I died carrying his baby.

They move together now, finding their rhythm. Her nails dig into his shoulders, marking territory I can never claim again. His mouth traces paths across her skin that used to be mine alone.

"Yes," she breathes. "Just like that."

The counter shakes under them, metal hitting metal, harsh and cold. Nothing romantic about it. Just raw need and the kind of desperate sex that happens when someone's trying to forget.

Trying to forget me.

Her moans bounce off the steel walls, mixing with the hum of freezers and distant traffic. The soundtrack of my replacement.

This used to be our place. Late nights after closing, we'd dream about opening our own restaurant someday. Something that belonged to just us.

Now she owns it.

He's different with her. Rougher. More confident. Like I was just practice, and this is the real deal. Everything about him—the way he moves, the sounds he makes, even how he breathes—it's all more alive with her.

"Don't stop," she gasps, wrapping her legs around him.

Stop. Please stop. I can't watch anymore, but I can't look away either. I'm stuck here, forced to see my own life get erased in real time. I want to scream, but dead girls don't make noise. I want to cry, but ghosts don't get tears.

They're close now. I can tell from the way his breathing changes, the tension in his shoulders. All the signs I learned over eight months of loving him. But it's happening faster with her, easier, like her body speaks a language mine never could.

When they finish, she cries out his name—"Zane!"—not Z, our private nickname. And he buries his face in her neck, groaning "Brielle" like it's the only word that matters.

Not Harper. Never Harper again.

They stay like that for a moment, breathing hard, skin damp with sweat. Connected. Complete.

The second they separate, Brielle grabs her phone.

"This lighting is perfect," she says, snapping selfies in my cardigan.

"What're you doing?"

"Instagram story." She types fast. "'Late night vibes 💕' My followers eat this stuff up."

Behind-the-scenes of what? Stealing a dead girl's life?

"Maybe don't tag the location," Zane says, but he's grinning. He likes the attention.

"Relax, babe. I know what I'm doing." She posts it, then shows him the screen. "Look, already blowing up."

Babe. He lets her call him babe. I called him Z—our thing, our secret. She gets generic pet names.

"We should clean up." Zane surveys the mess they made.

"You clean. I need to fix my makeup." Brielle heads for the bathroom, still wearing my cardigan like it always belonged to her.

Alone, Zane starts wiping down surfaces, gathering wine glasses. His phone buzzes.

Text from Carmen: "Still no word from Harper's family about funeral arrangements. Did you ever meet her mom?"

Funeral planning. While he's having sex with Instagram models in my clothes.