I will be the perfect wife this time-Chapter 99: Digging for a Ghost

As the lid of the casket groaned open, it revealed a nightmare of pale flesh and matted crimson. The body within was a ruined husk, the skull crushed with such calculated brutality that the features were unrecognizable—a hollowed mask of gore. The flesh had not yet succumbed to the stiffness of rigor mortis, suggesting the life had been snuffed out only hours prior.

Olivia’s hand hovered over the mangled remains, her fingers trembling as she traced the cold contours of a body that clearly did not belong to the woman they sought. She swallowed hard, a drop of cold sweat tracing the line of her spine.

"If she didn’t bury her here..." Olivia whispered, her voice a fragile thread of terror, "then where is she?"

Leon’s composure snapped. He lunged at her, his hands clamping onto her shoulders with a crushing, skeletal grip. His silver eyes were wild, frantic lanterns in the dark. "What the hell do you mean? Where is Isabella? Where is my wife!"

"I... I don’t know," she gasped, her breath hitching against the pressure of his hands. "I truly don’t know!"

Before another word could be torn from her throat, the rhythmic crunch of boots on dry grass cut through the night. A shadow loomed over the lip of the grave, casting a long, jagged silhouette over them.

"And what," a cold, mocking voice drifted down from above, "are the two of you doing down there in the dirt?"

One Night Earlier...

"Welcome, welcome... Lady Isabella. How kind of you to grace us with your presence." Elvira’s greeting was a purr, though her face was twisted into a look of predatory hunger.

Isabella stood her ground, her gaze unyielding. "I didn’t come here for a social call, Elvira. You know exactly why I’ve come."

"Do I? Oh... right. I suppose I do." Elvira circled her slowly, her silk robes trailing like the scales of a serpent. "I had nearly forgotten in all the excitement. But please, do remind me. It fuels my spirit."

"Enough with the games, Elvira," Isabella snapped, her voice cutting through the stifling air of the room. "I want the truth today. I want to know who is pulling the strings—is it you, or is it Olivia? Tell me the truth: is my father alive or dead? I want the truth, and I want it now."

Elvira’s lips curled into a sneer of pure, venomous delight. "Oh? Did Olivia not tell you already? How tragic."

Isabella’s eyes widened, a cold, suffocating realization washing over her. "You mean... you were lying the entire time?" A wave of bitter, jagged regret surged through her—a realization that she had walked straight into a serpent’s den while ignoring the only hand that had tried to pull her back.

Elvira lunged. Without a shred of hesitation, she drove a brutal, heavy blow into Isabella’s abdomen. Isabella buckled, the air leaving her lungs in a sharp wheeze. "Fool," Elvira hissed, her voice a low vibration of malice. "Olivia was shielding you from me, and you practically crawled into my lap. You made it far too easy."

Elvira grabbed Isabella’s hair, wrenching her head back to force her to meet her gaze. "I am going to make you pay for your betrayal in ways your pathetic mind cannot even fathom." With a sickening thud, Elvira’s boot connected with Isabella’s face, sending the world into a sudden, merciful blackness.

Elvira gestured to the shadows. "Come."

A hulking brute emerged, lifting Isabella’s limp form over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

"Prepare the ’sanctuary’ we discussed," Elvira commanded, smoothing her robes with chilling composure. "Go now. I shall stay here and await the arrival of my darling Olivia."

The man nodded, his expression as vacant as stone. He carried her to a waiting carriage, the wheels rattling against the cobblestones as they sped toward the outskirts of the estate—toward the cemetery.

The journey was a blur of agonizing silence, punctured only by Isabella’s ragged, shallow breaths. She wasn’t entirely unconscious anymore; the jarring movement of the carriage had dragged her back to a state of hazy, painful awareness. Her hands were bound tight, the hemp biting into her wrists as she lay on the floorboards, listening to the rhythmic, death-like cadence of the horses’ hooves.

The carriage groaned to a halt. The man hoisted her over his shoulder once more, her head dangling uselessly down his back. Isabella forced her eyes open, the world spinning in greys and blacks. She recognized the silhouettes—the leaning headstones, the weeping willows. The graveyard.

He dropped her onto the damp grass like a piece of refuse. Without a word, he began to dig, the rhythmic scrape of the shovel against the earth sounding like a countdown. Beside the growing pit sat a narrow, crudely made wooden casket, its lid yawning open in wait.

He was focused, his back turned to her as he hollowed out the earth, oblivious to the fact that her emerald eyes were finally, desperately, fluttering open.

Isabella’s eyes locked onto a jagged, heavy stone partially submerged in the muck. It looked less like a rock and more like a primitive weapon offered by the graveyard itself.

She swallowed hard, her pulse thundering in her ears. For a fleeting second, the suffocating weight of her upbringing—the lessons in grace, the sanctity of life—clutched at her heart. She wasn’t a killer. But then, Olivia’s voice cut through the fog of her conscience, cold and biting: "Noble morals are worthless coins if the price is your life."

Her heart didn’t just beat; it sharpened into a cold, lethal resolve. With agonizing slowness, she dragged her bound hands toward the rock. Every inch felt like a mile, her breath held captive in her chest as she watched the guard’s rhythmic shadow rise and fall with each shovel of dirt. Her fingertips bled as they clawed at the rough, frozen surface of the stone, finally curling around its jagged edge.

The guard turned, sensing a shift in the air, but the realization came too late.

Isabella lunged.

The first blow connected with a sickening, wet thud against his temple. The man let out a guttural groan, reeling back as his eyes widened in a mixture of shock and primal confusion.

"You... I’ll kill you..." he wheezed, lunging at her with the clumsy desperation of a wounded beast.

He wasn’t dead. Not yet. He reached for her throat, his breath smelling of rot and cheap ale, but Isabella didn’t hesitate. The space where her fear had been was now occupied by a singular, burning instinct: Live.

She struck again. And again.

The stone rose and fell in a blur of shadow and crimson. She didn’t stop until the weight against her hands was no longer a threat, but merely a silent, heavy heap upon the desecrated earth.

The rhythmic, sickening thud of stone against bone echoed through the silent necropolis. Isabella didn’t stop until the man’s face was a grotesque map of crimson, until she felt the very structure of his skull splinter into something resembling crushed gravel beneath her strike.

She stood over him, her breath coming in heavy, ragged hitches. Her fine dress was ruined, drenched in the hot spray of her first kill. She looked down at the open pit—the grave intended for her—and a cold, clinical clarity washed over her.

She remembered Olivia’s constant, ruthless tutelage: "Never leave a trail. Bury the evidence before the world wakes."

With a strength born of pure adrenaline, she seized the guard’s heavy boots and dragged his carcass to the edge of the pit. He tumbled into the wooden casket with a hollow, final thud. Without a shred of remorse, Isabella took up the shovel. She filled the hole with mechanical precision, tossing the earth over her would-be executioner as if she had been performing such grim burials for decades.

The distant gallop of horses cut through the gloom. Her instincts flared. Grabbing the shovel like a makeshift claymore, she retreated into the darkness, crouching behind a row of weathered, leaning headstones.

Figures emerged from the mist. She watched them with narrowed eyes, her knuckles white around the wooden handle. They looked like grave robbers at first—two shadows silhouetted against the moonlight, frantic and desperate, digging at the very spot she had just covered. She crept closer, her feet silent on the damp grass, the shovel raised for a killing blow.

Then, the voices reached her. Voices she knew better than her own heartbeat.

She stepped out from the veil of shadows, looking down at the two mud-caked figures standing in the pit, shouting her name into the dirt.

"And what," Isabella asked, her voice eerily calm despite the blood drying on her skin, "are the two of you doing down there?"

Leon and Olivia snapped their heads up in unison, their faces masks of shock and disbelief.

They froze, their hands still buried in the mud of a grave that didn’t hold her.

"Isabella!?" they gasped as one.