My Killer Was His "I Love You" - Chapter 1: Chapter 1

When Chloe shoved me off the villa's balcony, my husband was on the phone, cooing sweetly to her—baby.
I thought that fall would kill me. Instead, it left me half-paralyzed.
But Chloe wasn't done. She hired men to finish the job—beating me until I was nothing but bruises before burying me alive in the estate's backyard.
Three years after my death, Chloe got uremia. And suddenly, my husband remembered me.
He stormed the private estate with a squad of bodyguards, tearing the place apart, convinced I was hiding from him.
"If you agree to donate a kidney to Chloe," he announced to the empty air, "I'll let you come home."
In the end, he dug three feet down—only to find my bones.
Grayson barged into the villa, his face twisted in irritation.
The estate was under his control, but no one was permitted inside the villa—not since he'd turned it into my prison.
Except I'd been dead for three years.
The place had been abandoned just as long.
Weeds choked the entrance, wild and unchecked.
Grayson scoffed. "Mila's gotten lazy. Look at this mess. She can't even bother to pull a few weeds?"
He shook his head, disgusted. "Compared to Chloe, she's nothing."
With a sneer, he yanked a handkerchief from his pocket, pressing it to his nose like the very air offended him.
"Mila!" His voice dripped with contempt. "You've had your little tantrum. Get out here now."
Silence.
His jaw tightened.
"Break the door down," he snapped at the bodyguards.
The door splintered under their force. They stormed inside—only to return minutes later, confused.
"Mr. Allen… she's not here."
Grayson's frown deepened. He stalked in himself, searching every corner. Nothing.
Finally, he pulled out his phone, hesitating.
We hadn't spoken in three years.
He couldn't even remember my number.
After a moment, he tapped the contact labeled "Bitch" and dialed.
I hovered beside him, watching bitterly.
Grayson had hated me to the core.
Three years ago, when his precious Chloe "miscarried," she'd pinned it on me. Overnight, I became the villain—locked away in this rotting estate to "reflect."
He never once thought of me.
Now, the call didn't even ring. Just a robotic voice: "The number you have dialed is no longer in service."
Grayson's face darkened. "Playing games, Mila? Fine. Hide all you want. See how long you last."
Then—laughter.
Ragged, broken, hysterical.
Grayson spun around.
A drunk slumped against the wall, clutching a shattered bottle, his clothes in tatters.
"Stop yelling," the man slurred, grinning wildly. "She's dead. Long dead."
One of the bodyguards kicked him. "You trash! This is Allen property. Get lost before Mr. Allen skins you alive!"
But the drunk just laughed harder, tears streaking his filthy face.
"She died horribly," he wheezed. "Pushed off the balcony, broken, bleeding…"
His voice cracked.
"And those animals—they ruined her. Then they buried her screaming."