You Can't Kill What's Already Dead

My eyes burned, another all-nighter done, just like the thousand others I'd pulled for my demanding wife, Brittany, and her "successful" friend, Marcus.

Then, darkness.

I woke up floating, looking down at my own wake, my grieving parents, and in a corner, Brittany and Marcus — she wasn't crying, she was relieved, nestled in his arms.

"The Prosperity Bond is a marvelous thing," Marcus murmured, his lips brushing her ear, "It took his earnings, his life force, and multiplied it for me. Tenfold."

My breath caught in my spectral throat, my entire life's work, my very essence, stolen and sold by the two people I trusted most, fueling their lavish lifestyle as it drained me dry.

The betrayal was a jagged blade, twisting in my non-existent gut, leaving behind only the cold, sharp fury of pure, white-hot rage.

Suddenly, blinding sunlight hit my face; I gasped, sitting bolt upright in my own bed, alive, solid, on the very morning of the car crash that killed me, armed with the horrifying truth.

"Ethan! Get up! You're going to be late for that presentation!" Brittany's voice, sharp as ever, cut through the silence, but this time, I wasn't just hearing a nagging wife—I was hearing a co-conspirator plotting my demise, and my patience was gone.