I Was His Wife, Then His Widow, Then No One's But My Own novel Chapter 464

"You're... not dead?"

Finnegan's voice trembled violently—whether from his soaring fever or sheer terror, he couldn't tell.

Frederick stood up at a leisurely pace, meticulously adjusting his cufflinks before taking two slow steps forward.

The overhead light cast harsh shadows across his sharp, angular features, making the scar on his forehead look even more demonic. Yet, the smile on his face remained perfectly serene, creating a deeply unsettling contrast.

"Disappointed? Your brilliant little scheme failed, Finn. You wanted me erased. You wanted to monopolize the Fletcher legacy, and you wanted to monopolize Seraphina."

Hearing that name felt like a spike being driven directly into Finnegan's eardrums.

Frederick tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. "So, how did it work out for you? You took my place. The family business is yours. Seraphina is yours. But looking at you right now, you don't seem very happy about it."

Every syllable he dropped twisted the knife deeper into Finnegan's chest. "Nora left. She figured out exactly who you were and walked away without a second glance. Cassie doesn't even recognize you as her father. You stood in a freezing downpour until you caught a severe fever, and Nora didn't even bother to look out the window. Tell me, doesn't that feel like karma?"

The brutal truth shattered Finnegan's composure. His breathing turned ragged, his chest heaving as if a wildfire were consuming his lungs. "Shut up!"

Frederick let out a dark, booming laugh, clearly relishing the total breakdown of his younger brother. "Why should I shut up? Which part of what I said was a lie? Five years ago, if you hadn't tampered with my travel itinerary, why would I have been on that doomed flight with you? I know you didn't magically predict the plane would crash, but playing the odds is a dangerous game. You always insisted on flying with me. I should have realized you were plotting against me from the start."

The sheer, suffocating pressure radiating from Frederick forced Finnegan to stumble backward until his shoulders hit the wall. He wanted to defend himself, but his throat seized up, choking off every word.

The night he altered his brother's itinerary five years ago, his hands had trembled so violently he could barely hold the mouse. Watching his brother supposedly die right in front of him had filled him with a sickening mix of grief and euphoric liberation.

Growing up, Frederick had always been the golden child. Finnegan had spent his entire life suffocating in his twin's shadow, and over time, his resentment had festered into something truly toxic.

He had genuinely wished for his brother to disappear, yes, but the plane crash had been a catastrophic accident. He had never actually intended for it to end in a bloodbath.

On the day of the funeral, standing in the front row in a crisp black suit, he watched their relatives wail and collapse. The devastation he painted on his face had looked more convincing than anyone else's, but deep down, in the darkest corner of his heart, he had been secretly celebrating. He had finally won.