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Corbin Marino and I had a promise. He would marry me after his ten-year prison term. When I was eighteen, he caught my stepfather assaulting me at my home. In a fit of rage, he stabbed the man twenty times and was convicted and sentenced to ten years in prison. Before his arrest, he swore he would marry me once he got out. But after his release at twenty-eight, he believed I had remarried during his incarceration. Consumed by bitterness, he accepted the arranged marriage his family had long advocated. On his wedding day, a reporter questioned him about me. Rumors claimed I had married another man shortly after his imprisonment and even had a child. Bright camera flashes covered his face. The tenderness in his eyes was gone. Only cold contempt remained. He stated he never regretted stopping my abuser. His only regret was saving someone unworthy. He said I deserved my own fate. His wedding fireworks lit up the East River that night. The next morning, NYPD busted a human trafficking ring. They found a bloodstained notebook and uncovered my body in the Appalachian woods. … Five years after my death, my bones were finally found. I lifted a hand, trying to block the sun overhead. It was too bright. The light passed straight through my palm. I looked down at my transparent hand and remembered. I was a ghost now. Ten years ago, I had just graduated from high school. Corbin and I had been accepted to the same university. That summer, he caught my stepfather trying to force himself on me. He grabbed a knife from the kitchen and stabbed him twenty times. Before the police took him away, he wiped the blood from his hands, gripped the back of my head, and kissed me. “Daphne, don’t cry. Wait for me. When I get out, I’ll marry you.” The Marino family held a lot of power in New York. They hired the best lawyers, getting the charge reduced from first-degree murder. In the end, he was sentenced to ten years. Less than a year after he went to prison, Mrs. Marino came to see me. I had always known she hated me. What I never expected was for her to sell me to traffickers on the very day I was supposed to leave for college. In the five years that followed, I was sold twice. The first buyer was a violent man who beat me every day. He tortured me. Eventually, he sold me for just a few thousand dollars to another man living in a remote cabin. After that, I was locked in a basement every single day. There were no windows, only damp walls and the smell of mold. I tried to escape three times. The third time, I made it the farthest. But they caught me and dragged me back. After that, they broke my leg and chained me up with a dog collar. In the fifth year, I became pregnant. I didn’t know who the father was. Maybe the man who owned me. Maybe one of his friends. I couldn’t bear the thought of having that child. In the end, I used the dog chain to hang myself. At first, the police couldn’t reach my family, and the case stalled. It wasn’t until someone dug up that old notebook. It was battered and crusted with blood. A police officer flipped through the pages. “The victim seems to have known the Marino family’s son. Should we contact him?” I stood beside them, staring at the notebook. The handwriting inside grew messier and fainter with every page. Back then, every time I wrote the name Corbin Marino, I thought he might suddenly appear and rescue me from that hell. But he never came. Not even on the day I died. Soon, the call went through. “Corbin Marino.” His voice was nothing like the one I remembered from when he was eighteen—it was low, rough, and cold. “Mr. Marino, hello. We’d like to ask you about Daphne Hawthorne—” Before the officer could finish, Corbin cut him off. “If this is about her, don’t contact me again.” I stood frozen. I had imagined this moment so many times, wondering how he would react when he learned I was dead. I had never imagined this. “Even if she’s dead, it ......

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