“You took my money, got rid of our baby and walked out on me—and now you’re living like this. Don’t you regret leaving me?” His eyes burned red as he stared at the back of her head.
But when the woman turned around, I couldn’t help but let out a bitter laugh.
It had been a false alarm.
The face was completely unfamiliar.
Fletcher stood stunned for a moment, the light in his eyes dying out.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“I thought you’re someone I know.”
The truth was, in the five years since my death, whenever news about me faded, another rumor would pop up.
The first year, someone claimed that after aborting the baby, I bought a plane ticket overseas and married a local.
Fletcher was still in the hospital then—he crushed a glass in his bare hand when he heard.
Before he’d even recovered enough to be discharged, he ordered his assistant to buy a ticket so he could fly overseas immediately.
He followed every lead he could find, scouring every possible place.
In the end, he came back empty-handed.
But after that, whenever another rumor surfaced about me marrying that man, his brow would crease and he’d pay close attention.