After The Mad Dog In The Fog

My mother was once adored and protected by three men. As such, I had three fathers. After her death, I was raised by one of the greatest doctors, the richest man in Theala, and an award-winning actor. For 13 years, I was showered with overwhelming adoration. That was until three years ago—the day they adopted Erin, an orphan girl. From then on, they began to dote on her. When she accused me of stealing her necklace, they tore my room apart in their search, smashing my most cherished music box in the process. They only felt remorse when they saw me sobbing over the shards. As compensation, they bought me every music box they could find. When she claimed I mocked her for being an orphan, they forced me to write a hundred apology letters as punishment. They only massaged my hands in remorse upon seeing them trembling so badly that I could no longer feed myself. When Erin accused me of shredding her gown, they locked me in the dark basement, starving me for three whole days. When I was let out, they were filled with remorse upon realizing how much weight I had lost. Their bloodshot eyes watched over the grand feast they prepared as an apology. All of that lasted until Erin poisoned my cup of water. I kept coughing up blood as my body grew weaker by the day. Daniel only diagnosed me with malnutrition and made me take prescribed supplements. Unbeknownst to him, those supplements only hastened the poison's effects. After I collapsed at school, I went to the hospital for treatment. "You only have three days left to live," the doctor said. Why then… Why did my fathers drown themselves in sorrow and kill Erin after my death?

In the tenth year of being Don Vitelli’s sugar baby, the most reckless man alive was ready to change his ways for a good girl. On my twenty‑eighth birthday, he told me it would be our last time together and prepared an entire box of protection. I opened one of the wrappers and asked casually who that good girl was. Caino Vitelli leaned against the headboard and released a slow ring of smoke. “Your sister. I don’t even know how I fell for her. “That little fool can barely breathe after we kiss. She’s as pure as they come.” His tone sounded like a complaint, yet his eyes held a smile. The wrapper slipped from my hand. I stared at him, unable to move. Why her, of all people?

On the day I was kidnapped, my husband was looking after his sick sweetheart. I called him, asking him for help. Yet, he merely replied coldly, "Danica, you are a bad liar." After that, he heartlessly hung up the phone call on me, causing me to get brutally murdered by the kidnappers. I failed to show up as scheduled on the day we agreed to finalize our divorce. He called me in exasperation, only for the phone call to be answered by the police. "Mr. Ferguson, are you a family member of the deceased Danica Reed?"

I suffer from extreme mental illness. My sister, Ava Monroe, became a facial model to earn money for my expensive medical treatment. She was 5’3” tall but was noticed because of her beauty by a wealthy young man by the name of Dominic Pierce with a leg obsession. He imprisoned her. “This is the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. If only your legs were a bit longer, I’d die with a smile.” Ava was forced to have leg-lengthening surgery. After the operation, her legs began to rot. Dominic found her disgusting and locked her in the basement. He tortured her until she died. I got kicked out of the mental health institute because I could not pay the medical fees. I found Dominic surrounded by beautiful women with long legs. “Those are the prettiest legs I’ve ever seen. If only your face were a little cuter, I’d die with a smile!” I pointed to the painting of Ava and scoffed, “What if I become her?”

My name is Elena, and I died at twenty-two. My parents forced me to take my foster sister’s place and traded me for a territorial alliance. My mate was the most volatile heir of the wolf packs. Beaten bloody and fading fast, I made my eighth call for help. At my adopted sister Seraphina’s birthday party, she played the recording of my final, groveling plea—and laughed. My parents listened to those desperate calls with nothing but irritation, dismissing each one as theatrics, an inconvenience unworthy of their time. My brother snarled over the phone, “Then just die already!” So I did. In the end, it was my three-year-old daughter who made the final call—using her smartwatch to video my mother, live-streaming the freezer where my severed head lay. Now, my spirit watches from above as they all, one by one, begin to unravel.

Three days after my boyfriend’s adopted sister died a tragic death, I clutched a so-called "hush money" check in my hand and became an accomplice in everyone’s eyes. My boyfriend once knelt in the pouring rain to beg me, and his sister’s five-year-old daughter cried and begged me to testify, but I refused them both. Ten years later, when I was dying of cancer, my boyfriend had become a billionaire. The first thing he did upon returning to the country was to forcibly extract my memories, even though I would suffer endless pain. "Elara, you vain, heartless monster! Lily and I must have been blind to ever treat you like family!" "Lily has been dead for ten years, and you’ve been walking free with that dirty money the whole time!" "Today, I’m going to find out exactly who paid you off—the person you protected just for money!" My boyfriend held a press conference to publicly crucify me for my crimes. But after seeing the whole truth, he went completely insane.