Chapter 1

Seven years into our marriage, my husband pushed me down the stairs over a single word from his mistress.

The baby was gone. And I was diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer.

On the day we signed the divorce papers, I neither cried nor made a scene. I simply dug out an old sketchbook covered in dust from the storage room.

It was the very first gift he had ever given me back in high school.

When I opened the first page, a familiar line of handwriting came into view—

“Violet, I’m gonna love you for ten thousand years!”

Through tears, I grabbed a pen and viciously crossed it out.

“Don’t love Violet. She’s bad luck.”

But the next second, the words vanished into thin air, replaced by a new line of furious scribbles:

“What kind of death-wish monster are you?”

“Who the hell dares curse my wife?!”

Eighteen-year-old Ethan, across time itself, had sent me his furious reply.

"Miss Carter, Mr. Blackwell's terms are clear: the villa goes to you, plus five million dollars, as long as you sign the papers."

The lawyer pushed the divorce agreement in front of me coldly.

I'd just finished dialysis. The needle marks on my arm still showed dark bruises, and my chest felt like it was stuffed with burning coals, making me want to vomit.

But I held it back.

I glanced up at our wedding photo on the wall.

In the picture, Ethan Blackwell had his arm around my waist, his smile brighter than the sunshine that day.

Who could have imagined that in just seven short years, the man who swore to protect me forever would now find even the sight of me disgusting?

"Where is he?"

"Mr. Blackwell is accompanying Miss Sullivan to her prenatal checkup. He's unavailable." The lawyer answered emotionlessly.

Sophia Sullivan.

At the sound of that name, my heart seized violently.

The impoverished student I once considered a little sister and financially supported. The girl who called me "sis" over and over. She was now carrying my husband's child, brazenly living in the guest room I'd carefully decorated, and was about to replace me entirely.

"Fine."

I picked up the pen. My hand trembled badly, but when I signed "Violet Carter" at the bottom, the stroke was surprisingly resolute.

No heartbreaking accusations. No hysterical attempts to make him stay.

Because I knew that Ethan Blackwell's heart had become harder than stone.

The lawyer collected the documents and left.

The enormous villa was hollow and empty, as quiet as a tomb.

I began packing my things. Actually, I didn't have much to take.

For these seven years, I'd lived like an appendage of Ethan Blackwell. The clothes were ones he picked, the jewelry was what he bought. Things that truly belonged to me were pitifully few.

In the corner of the storage room, I dragged out a dust-covered cardboard box.

This was from high school graduation, when Ethan had forced it on me. He said these were all his worldly possessions, entrusted to my care.

Opening the box, a slightly yellowed hardcover sketchbook sat on top.

I studied art. He was a jock.

During study hall, I'd draw while he either slept beside me or grabbed my notebook to doodle randomly.

Something possessed me to open it.

The first page showed an extremely ugly turtle he'd drawn, with a note beside it: "Violet is a little turtle."

Flipping through, it was full of the clumsy strokes belonging to eighteen-year-old Ethan.

Until I reached the middle page, where I froze.

This was a line I'd never seen before, written with such force it had penetrated through the paper, even tearing it slightly.

"Violet, I will love you for ten thousand years! Not one year less, not one month, not one day, not one hour!"

Tears fell without warning onto the page, blurring the blue ink.

Love for ten thousand years?

Ethan Blackwell, your love didn't even have a shelf life of seven years.

I fumbled in my bag for a black pen. The urge to destroy everything rampaged through my chest.

I forcefully drew a big X over the words "ten thousand years."

Then, trembling, I wrote a line.

"Ethan Blackwell, don't love Violet Carter. She's cursed. She'll destroy you."

Since the ending was so rotten, better if it had never begun at all.

I closed the notebook and slumped against the wall, powerless. The stabbing pain in my stomach made me curl into a ball.

Just then, the sketchbook resting on my lap suddenly moved.

I thought it was my imagination.

But immediately after, the scratching sound of someone writing forcefully on paper exploded in my ears out of nowhere.

I snapped my eyes open and flipped the book open.

The line I'd just written had vanished.

In its place were several lines of bold, messy blue handwriting, the ink still wet, carrying an overwhelming sense of teenage bravado and inexplicable fury.

"Who the hell are you? Some kind of demon?"

"Who? Who dares curse my girl? Got a death wish?"

"Come out! Stop playing ghost!"