Chapter 4

For the past few days since my death, my soul had been hovering around Theodore, watching as he finally began to search for me.

Theodore stared at his phone screen. My number had been showing "unable to connect" for three days straight.

Watching his unease, a bitter satisfaction surged through me. Three days—it had taken him three days to think of looking for me?

"She must have gone back to our old apartment. She always does that..." Theodore muttered to himself, tossing his phone onto the couch.

Our old apartment? I let out a bitter laugh. I did go back there—only I'll never leave again.

Lydia came downstairs, her damp hair cascading over her shoulders, wearing my silk robe. Seeing Theodore's anxiety, she approached him tentatively. "What's wrong, babe?"

Theodore doesn't respond, just stares blankly at his phone. I saw the expression on his face—an unease I've never witnessed before.

At three in the morning, I followed them back to the bedroom.

Theodore jolted awake from a nightmare, drenched in cold sweat. Lydia's arm was wrapped around him, but he sat up, trembling in the darkness. "She's been saying she doesn't feel well lately... what if..."

This clueless bastard finally remembered my symptoms?

I floated above their bed, watching his panicked expression. Too late, Theodore. By the time you remembered, I'd already been dead for three days.

At dawn, Theodore raced out of Beverly Hills. My soul followed him through LA's morning rush hour to Santa Monica Pier.

When he saw the police cars and crowd of onlookers outside the apartment building, Theodore's face turned ashen.

I watched him push through the neighbors, hearing a middle-aged woman say, "I heard she was an entertainment lawyer, always working late. When they found her, she was already..."

Theodore rushed toward the apartment but was stopped by an officer. "Sir, this is a crime scene, please step back!"

From behind the police tape, he saw my body.

"Eve, please..." His voice broke completely. "Why didn't you tell me..."

I floated beside him, watching his trembling hands, listening to his desperate cries.

The neighbors were gossiging:

"Her husband is just showing up now?"

"Poor woman, died all alone."

These words pierced my soul like knives. Yes, I died truly alone. And the person responsible for it all was now putting on this show of devotion.

During the memorial service at Forest Lawn, I watched Theodore mechanically handle all the arrangements with the funeral director.

Lydia tried to comfort him but was coldly pushed away. "Don't touch me."

Oh, now you want to maintain distance? I watched with cold satisfaction at this performance.

Back home, Theodore sat alone in my study. He picks up my work phone, his trembling fingers entering the password—our wedding anniversary.

When he saw that last email I sent him, the phone dropped to the floor.

"Her medication... she hated pills, always needed me to remind her..." He spoke painfully to the empty room. "She was planning our whole fucking future while I was..."

Watching him finally realize what he'd missed, I felt a twisted satisfaction. Yes, Theodore, I was planning our future while you were fucking another woman.

But this satisfaction was quickly replaced by greater rage.

A media storm erupted online.

I followed Theodore's gaze to his phone screen, Twitter flooded with accusations against him:

#JusticeForEve

#TheodoreBlackwood

#LydiaCrowe

Users had dug up photos from the Emmy red carpet, comparing them to my death date. The comments are filled with fury:

"This woman fought for Theodore for years, and her death gets less attention than the mistress's pregnancy photos."

"Lydia Crowe is just a professional homewrecker!"

Seeing these voices defending me, my soul felt warmth for the first time. At least someone remembered my existence.

The doorbell rang. Lydia bursted in, crying.

"Theo, my agent says we need damage control! The studio is reconsidering my contract!"

I watched her swollen eyes, hatred burning through me. She's scared? She feels panic too? Excellent.

"All my endorsement deals are being terminated! Nike pulled out, Chanel canceled the campaign!" Lydia grabbed Theodore's sleeve. "You have to help me figure this out!"

Theodore's response surprised me: "I should have been there for her. Just her. Nobody else."

His voice was terrifyingly hollow, as if his soul had been drained.

"Do you know what she was thinking when she died?" Theodore asked Lydia.

Lydia stammered: "I... how would I know?"

"She was thinking about our Netflix project. About the copyright proposal due next month. She was working for me until the moment she died, and what was I doing?"

Hearing this, my soul trembled violently. Theodore finally understands. But why now? Why not when I was still alive?

Over the following weeks, I watched Theodore's world completely collapse.

CAA calls, client threats, legal team overtime... every problem crashed down on him like hail. I watched with cold satisfaction as he struggles to cope.

Then TMZ released photos of Lydia's pregnancy.

I watched the internet explode again, watched Theodore get completely swallowed by the tsunami of public opinion.

In CAA's Century City conference room, I watched him numbly face his partners' questioning. When someone mentioned my partnership shares, he said mechanically: "The partners will handle the succession according to our agreement."

But I knew the vultures were already circling my stake in the firm.

Ten days later, I followed Theodore to his cramped new office in Culver City.

An assistant holding a banker's box asked him: "Mr. Blackwood, what should we do with Ms. Eveline's photos?"

Theodore didn't look up: "Storage unit. Everything goes to storage."

That photo got packed into a storage unit in Van Nuys, piled with other outdated trophies and posters. I watched my smiling face gradually disappear under dust.

In the photo, I'm still smiling, as if eternally waiting for him to turn around.

But Theodore was now completely consumed by Lydia's difficult pregnancy, media pursuit, and his struggling practice—no time left to remember our past.

My soul lingered in that storage unit, watching that forgotten photograph.

So this was how love ended: not in spectacular destruction, but slowly forgotten amid life's trivial realities.

Theodore, you finally got your wish. You got Lydia, got a child on the way. Though you lost your partnership and Beverly Hills lifestyle, at least you're alive.

And me? I didn't even get the chance to be properly mourned once.