When I died, Zhao Yichen was busy flirting with the owner of a flower shop.
For that ridiculous betrayal, I haunted him for three years.
Every time I revealed myself and scared off another girl he dragged home, it never failed. The girl would clutch her purse, trembling, and whisper:
"Your place is haunted."
Yichen never flinched. He only smirked, tilting his head in that lazy way of his, and replied:
"Yeah. Haunted by a beautiful ghost."
The girl screamed, called him insane, and bolted for the door.
Zhao Yichen even walked her out politely, like some perfectly mannered gentleman, saying,
"Not staying for another drink? She seemed pretty understanding."
The poor girl, pale as a corpse herself, could only snap furiously,
"I thought we came here to see your cat do tricks, not to watch your dead ex float around."
He chuckled, shut the door, and turned to find me with my hair flying like a storm.
"How many does that make this month?" His voice was calm, almost amused.
"The third one," I said proudly.
He flopped onto the couch, his weight sinking the cushions, and even my soul jolted from the impact.
"So, Su Mei, are you trying to force me into celibacy?" He pointed toward himself with a bitter-sweet smile. "Three years without sex."
I crossed my arms. "And yet, look how much healthier you’ve become. You were practically glowing last week."
Back when I was alive, he had indulged recklessly, every night without restraint. His eyes darkened, voice low.
"Maybe my body’s fine. But life? Honestly it feels meaningless."
Yichen had always been a notorious playboy. Handsome, wealthy, brilliant he was the kind of man everyone wanted, a black rose in full bloom, tempting and dangerous.
That was exactly what drew me in. His languid smile. His casual charm. The unspoken promise of ruin wrapped in velvet.
But three years ago, when I loved him most, he looked me dead in the eye and said without hesitation:
"I’ll never marry. I’ll never love just one woman. I live for the moment. I don’t owe anyone anything."
So cold, yet so intoxicating.
We broke up and reconciled for two years, never untangling ourselves, until the night everything ended in blood.
The sound of wooden bats slamming into my skull was the last thing I heard.
Before they killed me, I managed to wipe my phone clean, leaving nothing incriminating behind. The final message I received wasn’t from Yichen but from a friend: a photo of Yichen holding a bouquet, smiling at the flower shop owner.
A perfect pair. Beautiful. Poetic.
I thought, of course he wouldn’t change for me. A man like him could never come back.
And as my world turned black, I wondered:
If Zhao Yichen knew I was dying, would he still have had the heart to flirt with her?
After I died, Yichen started buying flowers often. White roses especially.
Not for me, of course. It was just his excuse to keep chasing that flower shop woman.
By some strange twist of fate, my death anniversary fell on the exact day he first tried to make a move on her. Out of guilt or superstition he never touched her after that.
That night, he carefully arranged the roses in a vase, misted them with water, each droplet catching light.
Then he looked at me and said casually,
"Your yin energy is cold enough to keep them fresh. Stay close to the vase, won’t you? Saves me the trouble."
My fury chilled the air instantly. The room’s temperature dropped like a broken freezer. His grin only widened.
Yichen loved when I got angry. It made him smug, radiant, as if every ounce of his posture screamed: God, I’m enjoying this too much.
"Wanna pick out dresses later? I’ll burn them for you tonight," he teased, careless and extravagant.
And he did. Armani, Dior, custom couture all fed to the fire beneath the old locust tree for me. Even paper money in expensive stacks, tossed like confetti. While neighbors cursed the smoke, he coughed, grinned, and explained,
"Sorry, just burning gifts for my ex-girlfriend down below. Won’t be long."
He said it so smoothly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
But behind the smirks, I sometimes saw the truth how that eccentric playboy was slowly folding under grief.
Two nights later, he woke from a dream with tears on his face and whispered my name.
"Su Mei..."
I’d been twirling in a pale Chanel jacket when he sat up, saw me, and collapsed back into the bed, covering his eyes with his arm. His breathing steadied.
I spun twice with a smirk. "Well? How do I look?"
He cracked one eye, amber irises glowing faintly under the morning light. His grin turned wicked.
"Better without it."
I flushed. "Shut up."
But his silence afterward weighed heavy.
"My birthday’s the day after tomorrow," I said.
"I know."
"Then at least go visit my grave. Once."
No answer.
"Zhao Yichen. The grass over my tomb must be three feet tall. You’ve never shown your face there."
Chapter 01
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