What happens after death?
The question had never troubled Seraphina when she was alive. She had always believed that while one drew breath, one's worries belonged entirely to the living, ambitions to chase, empires to build, betrayals to survive. She had run the race of life without ever glancing over her shoulder.
But now she knew the answer.
Immediately after death, existence was like watching a film projected on gauze. She was there—detached, weightless, no longer tethered to the ruined vessel that had once been her body — still acutely aware of everything. But only in flashes. The strangest sensation of all was the helplessness: the inability to reach out, to speak, to change a single thing.
Worst of all was the fractured omnipresence. She was everywhere and nowhere at once. Time no longer marched; it folded, looped, dissolved. Moments overlapped like double-exposed photographs. She could drift from place to place in the space of a thought, yet she could never truly arrive.
For what felt like days—Seraphina existed only as a silent spectator to the aftermath of her murder.
She could see her family, her company after her demise, through bursts of lucidity.
She could only glimpse images. If she was lucky, she could observe more, but remembering what she saw was a challenge.
She could see her father mourning, sitting alone in his study late at night, staring at old pictures of her when she was little, his shoulders shaking with sobs he tried to hide. For once, she thought her stepmother wasn't evil; she saw her cry actual tears at the funeral, hugging her father tightly.
Had she misread the woman all these years? Or was this simply guilt wearing the mask of grief?
But the deepest cut came later, in the private salon of Victoria's Upper East Side penthouse after the public mourning had ended.
Victoria and Evelyn were alone. The doors were closed; the staff dismissed for the evening. They had just returned from the funeral, where Evelyn had shed tears upon tears, clinging to Derek's arm, looking like the perfect tragic couple who had lost a loved one too soon.
Victoria poured champagne—actual champagne—into two crystal flutes and handed one to her younger daughter with a soft, conspiratorial smile.
"To new beginnings," Victoria said, raising her glass.
Evelyn clinked hers against it, eyes bright. "To everything finally being mine."
Victoria settled into an armchair, crossing her legs with the elegance of someone who had never once doubted her choices. "She always had whatever you wanted, Evelyn darling. The name, the company, your father's affection, even Derek's eye. I watched it eat at you for years." She sipped, savoring the bubbles. "Now it's all yours. Everything I could never give you because that man favored her. Everything she lorded over you without even realizing it."
Evelyn's voice was quiet, almost tender. "She really thought she was the hero of the story, didn't she?"
Victoria laughed—a low, satisfied sound. "Oh, she did. Always the brilliant one, the independent one, the one who didn't need anyone. Such a little know-it-all." She leaned forward, patting Evelyn's knee. "But you, my love—you were patient. You played the long game. And now you rule the world I built for you."
Seraphina felt whatever remained of her fracture into smaller pieces. The pain cut deeper than the basement, deeper than the rope.
But the lucidity didn't remain for long. She remained suspended in vague omnipresence for what felt like an eternity, emerging only to see things she could hardly understand.
She saw faces merging into one another.
One face stood out again and again. A very handsome one, sharp jaw, kind blue eyes that once looked at her like she was the only person in the room. Someone who made her feel safe for a moment long ago. She wanted to see that face again, to feel that safety, that protection, to not be alone. But the face blurred and slipped away every time she reached for it.
Memories of her life rushed over her like waves. Some happy brief flashes, birthday parties when she was small, her father lifting her high and laughing, weekends with her mother and Evelyn building sandcastles, feeling like the three of them were unbreakable. But most of them just made her heart ache.
Father choosing silence. Mother choosing Evelyn. Evelyn choosing everything over her. Even the happy memories turned sour now because they were lies too.
She watched Evelyn walk red carpets in dresses Seraphina would have picked for herself, wearing the smile that used to be hers. Headlines announced Evelyn's reign at Hale Lumina, using Seraphina's designs, lightly rebranded. She watched old friends raise glasses to Evelyn's strength, speaking of Seraphina only in whispers, in past tense, as though she had never really mattered.
She watched the company she had built—the empire born from her sleepless nights, her vision, her heart—crumble under Evelyn's hands. Like a leech, her sister latched on and drained it dry, firing loyal designers, slashing quality for profit, swapping ethical suppliers for cheap factories, rushing out watered-down collections.
Everything that had made Hale Lumina unique was sucked out and discarded, leaving only a hollow shell chasing quick money. The world applauded Evelyn's "bold revitalization," blind to the slow death inside, while Seraphina could only watch, helpless, as her life's work withered and died.
She tried to scream, to reach out, to make someone—anyone—see the truth. But she couldn't. She remained only a viewer, trapped forever in the endless film of a life stolen from her, watching them rewrite her story until even her own memories began to fade.
And then it all ended. The blur softened. The pain eased into something distant, then gone. There was peace and warmth, a gentle pull like falling into deep, dreamless sleep.
And she woke up once more.
Sunlight filtered through familiar curtains. Her own bed. Heart racing, sheets tangled around her legs, breath coming in sharp gasps.
Alive!