Buying Flowers for My Ghost

Eight months into my pregnancy, the disembodied voice I thought Id escaped forever flickered back to life inside my head.

[Were sorry, Host. Your ninety-ninth attempt to reform the villain has failed. System-wide termination is imminent.]

I froze.

The defense I was about to mount died on my lips as the door opened, revealing my boyfriend. Drew was no longer wearing the faded, six-dollar thrift-store tees he usually lived in. He stood in the doorway draped in bespoke cashmere, looking impossibly wealthy, impossibly cold.

"I talked to my wife," he said, his tone as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "Shes agreed to accept the child."

I stared at him, my throat dry.

"Don't look at me like that," he continued, adjusting his cuffs. "It all came back to me. Im the sole heir to the Silvester fortune in Boston. Seven years ago, I lost my memory in that accident, and you took advantage of it to keep me here. If you want financial compensation, Ill write you a check. But that's all I can give you."

I didn't say a word.

With the help of the System, I had spent ninety-nine lifetimes trying to save this man. Id played the game across centuries of his timeline, starting from when he was a dying patriarch, working my way back to his twenties when he first lost his memory.

But there was a cruel catch.

The earlier I intervened in his life to save him, the earlier his true memories returned.

The first time, he remembered who he was at eighty-nine.

The second time, at eighty.

The third, at seventy-nine.

And now, this final time, his mind had cleared at twenty-seven.

And every single time his memory returned, his first instinct was always the same: to run back to his fiance.

As my hand rested on the heavy, high curve of my pregnant belly, wondering how to exit this stage with some shred of dignity, the System chimed again.

[Host, there is a loophole. You may opt into a bonus trial. Survive the next twenty-four hours, and you will earn a clean slate and a brand-new identity.]

[But you only have twenty-four hours.]

A translucent, red-rimmed countdown flickered in the upper corner of my vision.

[23:59:59]

I blinked, but the numbers remained, ticking down in silence.

Drew stepped closer, his thumb gently brushing a stray tear from the corner of my eye. His touch was cold.

"What are you crying for?" he murmured. "Its not like Im abandoning you."

"As long as you don't use this pregnancy to cause a scene, Ill make sure youre taken care of for the rest of your life."

His hand slid down, resting on the swell of my stomach. On his middle finger, a plain band caught the dim light of our rental.

It was the ring hed bought three months ago when he asked me to marry him.

The proposal had been painfully simple. No elaborate dinner, no friends hiding in the corners with cameras. Just a cheap sterling silver band, a homemade dinner, and a few quiet promises spoken in the dark.

But back then, his eyes had been so earnest, so filled with a future that belonged only to us, that I had allowed myself to believe. I had allowed myself to be greedy.

Now, his gaze was just as intense, but it was curdled with a chilling, calculating pragmatism.

"You're a smart girl, Georgia," he said. "You know what the logical play is here. Stay with me, have the baby, and youll never have to worry about rent or groceries again."

A dull, aching throb bloomed in my chest.

Only this morning, I had been standing in the local market, bickering with the grocer to see if shed throw in a bunch of green onions with my five-dollar bag of carrots. Now, a life of unimaginable wealth was being handed to me on a silver platter.

I stared at him for what felt like an eternity.

"When did you remember?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Drew hesitated, his eyes shifting away for a fraction of a second. "The day after I proposed."

"So... when you told me you had to go out of town on business, you actually went back to Boston to reclaim your trust fund and play house with your fiance?"

It made sense now.

The day after he proposed, he packed a bag.

On the third day, he called to promise me that once his big project wrapped up and he got his bonus, wed get married at city hall and book the best maternity ward in the state.

On the fourth day, his texts grew brief, complaining of exhaustion.

By the fifth day, the silence began.

For weeks, I had stared at our sparse, one-sided text thread, a sinking feeling clawing at my throat. I had called him dozens of times, terrified something had happened to him.

When he finally picked up, his voice had been tight, distant: "You're too far along to travel, Georgia. Just stay put. Wait for me to come home."

I waited. And now, he was back, holding a scalpel to our life.

Drew gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "Actually, Cassandra and I have been legally married for five years. Technically, youve been the mistress this entire time."

I locked eyes with him. He was the first to look away.

"If I had my memory, I never would have crossed that line," he muttered, his jaw tightening. "But whats done is done. I don't run from my responsibilities."

It was a beautiful lie. The kind of noble-sounding speech that might have fooled anyone else.

But it didn't fool me. Not after ninety-nine lifetimes of watching him make the exact same excuses.

I closed my eyes and spoke to the voice in my head.

What is the bonus trial?

The Systems voice was uncharacteristically light, almost gentle.

[Just survive, Georgia. Stay alive for twenty-four hours, and you win.]

It was a ridiculously easy task, a free pass handed down by a machine that seemed to have developed a conscience. Even the cold code of the System felt pity for me.

But Drew did not.

"Pack some things," he said, checking his watch. "Im taking you to meet my wife. Youll apologize to her, write a formal statement promising you won't make any claims on my family, and then we can put this behind us."

He looked exactly like the man I had loved for seven years, yet he felt like a total stranger.

Only three months ago, Drew was working three different blue-collar shifts just to make sure we had enough saved for the nursery. We lived under the same leaky roof but barely saw each other. I would fall asleep before he came home; I would wake up after he had already left.

The only proof of his presence was the warm thermos of homemade soup left on the counter, and the little notes telling me he loved me.

I thought ninety-nine heartbreaks would have numbed me.

But as I stood there, the weight of his betrayal hit me like a physical blow, leaving me breathless.

I shook my head. "No. I don't play the part of the other woman."

"Since youve found your real life, lets just call it quits."

Drew frowned, clearly not expecting me to walk away. He pulled out a silver cigarette casean expensive brand I didn't recognizeand tapped a cigarette against his knuckle.

"Mind?" he asked, though he didn't wait for an answer before flicking his lighter.

Before I got pregnant, Drew didn't touch nicotine. When the stress got too bad, hed occasionally sneak a cheap gas-station cigarette on the porch, but he never let the smoke get near me.

Now, he exhaled a heavy cloud of gray smoke, letting it drift between us, obscuring his face. His voice remained cool, transactional.

"Ive booked a private suite for you at a hospital in Boston, along with a team of specialists for the delivery. If it's a boy, Ill buy you a condo in the city and set up a ten-million-dollar trust."

"I know this is a shock. But look at yourself, Georgia. You have no college degree, no career, no savings. How do you expect to raise a child alone in this town?"

"Don't let your pride get in the way of your kid's future."

I let out a soft, bitter laugh. "If it weren't for my pride, Drew, youd be six feet under by now."

My ninety-nine missions had all been about keeping him alive.

As the designated tragic figure in this narrative, Drews story was supposed to end the moment his family cast him out and he lost his memory. Every time he tried to return to Boston, the plot pushed him closer to a violent end.

But he had no memory of those ninety-eight deaths.

He thought I was talking about the night I found him bleeding on the beach seven years ago, when I spent every penny of my savings to pay for his emergency surgery.

Drew ground the cherry of his cigarette into the wooden doorframe, his patience snapped.

"Are we still talking about that surgery? The doctors said it was a minor concussion. I would have survived even without your charity!"

Survived, yes.

But he would have been paralyzed from the waist down. He would have spent every rainy day screaming in agony from nerve damage. In our past lifetimes, whenever the phantom pains kept him awake, I would spend hours massaging his legs, hating myself for not finding him sooner, for not saving him from that pain.

Drews face darkened.

"You've been holding that surgery over my head for seven years. Have you forgotten how many times over Ive paid you back since then?"

"Don't get greedy, Georgia. Play your cards right, or youll end up with nothing."

He was convinced I was just bargaining, playing hard to get for a higher price.

"Ill be at the Grand Hotel downtown," he said, turning toward the exit without even stepping foot inside our apartment. "You have twenty-four hours to think it over. After that, the offer is off the table."

I stared at the black smudge of ash on the doorframe. It felt like a preview of what was left of my life.

[20:19:06]

The timer kept ticking.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Two text messages from an unknown number lit up the screen.

Georgia, why do you have to make things so difficult for Drew? I went out of my way to convince him to take care of you, and this is how you repay him?

Such a shame. I even scheduled your C-section for the exact date of our wedding anniversary so we could celebrate together. I guess you don't want that either.

I didn't need to check the contact. I knew the number by heart.

It was Cassandra, Drew's elegant, vindictive wife.

She hadn't changed. Whether she was twenty-five or sixty-five, she always loved these petty little mind games.

In our first few runs, she used to text me to ask if I enjoyed being Drew's unpaid maid. Later, she would gloat about how Drew had signed over all his assets to her, or boast about how he didn't care who she spent her nights with as long as she kept his ring on her finger.

Back then, I let her get under my skin. Every time the mission failed, I would take the System's punishments just to have a chance to strike back at her.

But now, I was just tired.

I deleted the thread, dragged my heavy body into the kitchen, and boiled a pot of water for a simple box of mac-and-cheese.

Seven years ago, when I brought Drew back to this cramped, drafty apartment from the hospital, our very first meal had been the exact same thing.

We didn't even have a stove back then. I had to cook the pasta in a cheap electric kettle, leaving the lid off so it wouldn't boil over. The steam filled the tiny room, and we had to leave the front door cracked so the heat wouldn't suffocate us.

We shared a single plastic bowl, eating with plastic forks.

I remember how Drew's eyes had brimmed with tears, his hands shaking as he took the fork from me.

"Once I heal," he had whispered, "Im going to get a job. I promise you, Georgia, I will never let you live like this again."

To keep him with me, I had lied, telling him we were star-crossed lovers who had run away from home together.

I had nodded quietly, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor.

Drew hadn't been lying. For seven years, he worked himself to the bone. Every paycheck he earned, he kept only fifty dollars for himself and handed the rest to me. We moved into a nicer, brighter place. We bought a used car. The numbers in my bank account grew, but I never dared to touch them.

I was always terrified of the day his mind would clear.

Then came the proposal three months ago. For a brief moment, I thought the loop had finally broken.

I had spent that entire night locked in a sweat-soaked nightmare.

The next morning, I woke up at six, cooked breakfast in a daze, and went out to water the hanging ferns on the balcony.

Perhaps sensing the storm brewing, the baby kicked violently against my ribs. I gasped, pressing a hand to my side, and was turning back toward the bedroom to lie down when the doorbell rang.

Before I could reach it, the muffled murmur of voices drifted through the thin wood.

"She deleted my fingerprint access and changed the digital lock," Drews voice was low, laced with annoyance. "Ill have to call a locksmith."

Then came Cassandra's soft, worried sigh, her voice trembling slightly. "Do you think she ran off? What if she hides the baby and tries to use it to force a divorce in a few years?"

Drews response was immediate, his tone dripping with a tenderness he had never once shown me.

"Unless a child comes from you, sweetheart, its no different from a stray dog to me. If she tries to extort us, Ill make sure she regrets it."

That kind of gentle, protective warmth... it was a stranger's voice. With me, Drew had always been quiet, solemn, accepting whatever life threw at us with a grim resignation.

"If it weren't for the fact that you hate pain and want to remain child-free," Drew added, "her kid wouldn't even have a shot at carrying my name."

A cold hand seemed to squeeze my heart, cutting off my breath.

A sharp click echoed. The lock turned.

The door swung open.

Drew stepped in first. When his eyes met mine, the familiar crease between his brows deepened.

"Time's up, Georgia. Are you ready to give me your answer?"

Cassandra slid her arm through his, leaning into his shoulder with a triumphant, glossy smile. She was breathtaking, like an old-money heiress from a magazine.

And me? I had spent seven years working under the harsh coastal sun, worn down by the daily grind of survival. My skin was dry, my eyes hollow, my youth completely swallowed by this town.

"Actually, Georgia," Cassandra purred, "theres always option B. You terminate the pregnancy, and you pay Drew back for every single cent hes spent on you over the years."

I stared at her in utter disbelief. "Im eight months pregnant!"

The baby was fully formed. Every ultrasound had shown a perfect, healthy heartbeat.

Drews face was a mask of stone. "No one is stopping you from having it. But you need to stop acting like you have leverage. You're trying to play a game you've already lost."

The coldness in his eyes made me shiver.

"Be grateful, Georgia," Cassandra said, stepping forward. "If you hadn't pulled Drew out of that ditch seven years ago, a woman with your... questionable morals and web of lies wouldn't even be allowed in the same room as a Silvester heir."

She reached out, her hand aiming directly for the heavy swell of my stomach. Her fingers pressed down with a sudden, vicious force.

The sharp pain made me gasp. Instinctively, I shoved her hand away.

I was exhausted, weak from the pain, and the push had barely any weight behind it.

Yet Cassandra let out a theatrical shriek, stumbling backward and crashing hard against the sharp corner of the dining table.

"Drew, please don't be mad at her!" she sobbed, clutching her hip. "It was my fault, I lost my balance!"

Drews face turned crimson with rage. Before I could even register the movement, his boot connected heavily with my abdomen.

"If anything happens to her, you and that bastard child of yours will pay with your lives!"

The kick was so fast, so brutal, that my pregnant body stood no chance. I was thrown backward, crashing hard against the wooden frame of the sofa before rolling onto the cold linoleum.

A deep, tearing agony ripped through my core.

Below me, a warm, thick pool of red began to spread across the floor.

But Drew didn't look back. He swept Cassandra up in his arms and stormed out of the apartment.

As the door slammed shut, Cassandra peered over his shoulder, her tear-streaked face twisting into a cold, mocking smirk.

She silently mouthed a single word: Loser.

Before darkness claimed me, the floating countdown in my vision turned a blinding, violent crimson.

[00:09:59]

[Warning! Warning! Host's vital signs are failing. Please seek immediate medical attention!]