He Marries the Girl Who Kills Me

I have been dead for four years. In these four years, the Lincoln Family's company, relentlessly pursued by Eric Shawn, has utterly declared bankruptcy. Today is the day of the property auction. Eric Shawn sat in the front row, an unlit cigar pinched between his fingers, his gaze as cold as ice. When the time came to auction the Lincoln Family's old mansion, he leisurely raised his paddle. "One dollar." His voice was low, yet it silenced the entire hall instantly. The auctioneer paused, then cautiously inquired, "Mr. Shawn, the starting price is 2.8 million. Are you certain you wish to bid one dollar?" Eric Shawn curled the corner of his lips, his gaze sweeping over the entire room: "One dollar—that's enough to buy all the Lincoln Family's worthless junk." No one dared raise their paddle again. My father suddenly clutched his chest and collapsed. He struggled to his feet, clutching Eric Shawn's trouser leg with a trembling voice: "Eric, for the sake of the years your father and I spent as old colleagues, please show mercy..." Eric Shawn did not lower his gaze. He held Lily Scott close, his fingers lightly tracing her waist. Lily leaned into his arms, a faint, elusive smile gracing her lips, like a cat savoring its victory. "Either accept this one million," Eric Shawn's eyes landed on the cameras in the hall, as if piercing through the lens to see me, "or your entire family will go to prison." He paused, the mockery in his tone sharp as a needle: "Or have your daughter Viola Lincoln sell herself once again—she once sold herself for money, now she can sell herself for your company." I floated beside the camera, my chest hollow and aching. I knew those words were meant for me. Suddenly, the phone rang. Not from the conference room, but from the direction of the West City Bridge Underpass. The sound of a shovel digging into the earth was sharp in my ears; my body was finally unearthed. The forensic pathologist rifled through my pockets, retrieved the phone, and inserted the SIM card into a temporary device. The ringing persisted, and the moment the call connected, Eric Shawn's voice came through: "Viola Lincoln, how does it feel to be a beaten stray dog?" In the background, the forensic pathologist spoke calmly yet harshly: "May I ask if you are a family member of the deceased Viola Lincoln? Please come to the Police Station to claim the body." I drifted beside the corpse, seeing for the first time the face I wore after death. Beneath the dilapidated bridge, my body had long since decayed beyond recognition. Tattered rags clung to my blackened skin; maggots crawled in and out of the gaping hole in my chest, producing faint sounds. The forensic pathologist frowned as he turned my body over, his voice tinged with reluctant sympathy: "Female, approximately twenty-five years old, time of death about four years ago, matching the profile of the last victim in the Serial Rape and Murder Case from four years prior." I raised my gaze toward the tall building nearby—a giant screen was broadcasting a live auction. The scene froze precisely at the moment Eric Shawn spoke his final words. The hatred in his eyes has not lessened in the slightest over these four years. I remember the winter four years ago. Back then, Eric Shawn's company was nearing collapse, and he was diagnosed with chronic kidney failure. Clutching his medical records, I raced through every hospital in the city. By day, I borrowed money; by night, I kept watch by his bedside, scarcely allowing myself to close my eyes. One deep night, the hospital suddenly called, saying there was a matching kidney donor and I must come immediately to sign the consent forms. I hailed a taxi racing to the hospital, only to be forced to stop by a white sedan. It is Lily Scott.