I Died And Saw My Husband Marry My Killer

The day I died, Liam Winston didn't come.

He was with Isabella Roscente, helping her pick out her wedding dress.

She was clinging to his arm, her smile as bright and perfect as a freshly bloomed flower.

I could even hear them talking about their honeymoon plans.

And me? I was the one being pushed off the twenty-eighth-floor rooftop by Isabella.

My body slammed into the concrete.

The pain was excruciating.

Blood pooled around me, a dark, ugly stain spreading out like a crushed rose.

I used to love roses more than anything.

Liam had planted an entire garden of them for me.

Just before he left on his business trip, he kissed my forehead and promised that by the time he got back, they'd be in full bloom, and we'd have our tea under the arbor.

But the buds hadn't even opened yet.

And I was the one who shattered first.

Isabella stood at the rooftop's edge, looking down at me.

The wind whipped her skirt around her legs like some kind of victory flag.

The corner of her mouth tilted up in a smug, cruel smile.

She didn't need to shout; her lips formed the words clearly, a silent message just for me:

"You have to die. Then he'll finally be mine."