Flight to Death: Haunting My Ex

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Weightlessness.

Screams.

A wall of fire swallowing the cabin whole.

The day after Donovan got engaged to that high-society heiress, his private assistant, Owen, handed me a one-way ticket.

Leave, Owen told me, his face an impenetrable mask. Never show your face in New York again. Otherwise, Mr. Donovan has plenty of ways to ruin you.

I clutched that five-million-dollar hush-money check, thinking it was my golden ticket to freedom.

Right until my first-class flight to Paris plummeted from thirty thousand feet.

Chapter 1

I never planned on dying.

In my head, I had it all mapped out. I'd take Donovan's five million dollars, fly across the ocean, and put an entire continent between me and that toxic mess. I had a whole lifetime of endless, sun-drenched days waiting for me.

But the second that plane dropped out of the sky?

Gone.

All of it.

A suffocating weight crushed my chest. The ticket Donovan booked for me wasn't a fresh start.

It was a death sentence.

My mind drifted back to the last time I saw him. We hadn't spoken in over two months. He had been too busy hiring sharks to handle Victoria's divorce, setting up the perfect life for her and the daughter she had with her ex. It took him all that time to remember he still had a girlfriend.

So, he carved exactly one hour out of his precious schedule and came to my place.

Well, not my place, exactly. A Manhattan Upper East Side penthouse overlooking Central Park. Without Donovan, someone of my class could never set foot in a place like this in a million years.

Not long before that, we were tangled in the sheets, his arm wrapped tight around my waist. I used to drag my nails down his back just to be wicked. It was funny how a few weeks apart could turn two people into absolute strangers. We sat on opposite ends of a ridiculously long marble dining table, a massive canyon of space between us.

He looked at me, his features carved out of ice. "Name your price."

Straight to the point.

I didn't hold back, either. Three years of playing his dirty little secret, his underground lover. I took five million dollars.

Sure, Ill admit I loved him once. But whatever pathetic feelings I had burned to ash the second I realized I was just a cheap stand-in for her.

He gave a single, stiff nod. "Done." His voice didn't hold a shred of warmth.

"But you can't stay in New York. She doesn't like breathing the same city air as you."

A harsh breath escaped my lips. What the hell was I supposed to do?

I nodded. If I put up a fight, a control freak like Donovan would just force me out anyway. At least this way, I walked out with some dignity.

He named a city overseas. "I have properties there. Pick one. It's yours."

So generous.

I flashed a perfectly plastic smile. "Sure."

He adjusted his cuffs, deliberately not meeting my eyes. "We cut all contact after this. Can you handle that?"

My very existence was a walking red flag for the happy engaged couple.

"Absolutely," I replied.

I grew up in the foster system. Scraped by to finish college three years ago. I heard New York was where the money lived, so I packed my bags. Hustled as a fringe model during Fashion Week.

I actually loved the heat of those spotlights. But it wasn't long before Donovan crashed into my life.

He chased me relentlessly for half a month, showering me with the kind of attention money buys, and I caved. He hated me showing my face in public, so I shrank my world down until he was the only thing in it. Shrank it so much that over the last three years, every single person I knew was his friend, not mine.

I had nothing tying me down here. I was itching to take the money, run, and never look back. Never look at him again.

But the universe has a sick sense of humor.

I died.

And somehow, I was looking right at Donovan again.

Except he couldn't see me.

I was nothing but a damn ghost.

When I was alive, I was obsessed with looking good. Right before my flight, I had a stylist blow out my hair and did my makeupa soft, natural look. I hadn't worn my makeup like that in years.

Donovan hated it.

I used to be so painfully naive. I twisted every part of myself to fit perfectly into the little box he built for me.

Chapter 2

But later, I found out his so-called "dislike" was just a cover. The truth was, I only looked exactly like Victoria when my face was painted with heavy makeup and thick winged eyeliner. Everyone knew Victoria was an A-list Hollywood actressa blonde, red-lipped bombshell straight out of a retro pin-up poster.

Now, maybe God was taking pity on me. I still looked exactly like I did right before I died. Not a single burn. Not a single scratch.

Standing inside Donovan's office, I spent a good minute examining my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror before letting out a relieved sigh.

I glanced around the massive room.

Yeah on that desk against that window We had done it everywhere. Honestly, I wanted to bleach my own brain just thinking about it.

Finally, I shifted my gaze to Donovan. Twenty-seven years old, holding the kind of wealth and power most men would kill for. The biggest failure of his entire privileged life was watching the woman he loved marry another man.

And now? They were getting a second chance. A happily ever after. Good for him, I guess.

So, naturally, even when his assistant walked through the door, Owen wore an easy smile.

"Mr. Donovan, the nursery is fully furnished." Owen paused, checking his tablet. "And all the designer clothes and jewelry Miss Victoria picked out yesterday have been delivered."

Donovan gave a low hum of acknowledgment. He tossed the contract onto his desk, pinched the bridge of his nose, and then picked up his phone. He stared at the glowing screen. He stared for a long, long time.

I was getting curious. Just as I leaned closer to peek at the display, his thumb clicked the screen black. Then, his voice cut through the silence.

"How is she doing?"

Owen blinked, caught off guard, before quickly answering. "Miss Victoria is filming on set right now. It's not far from here. Did you want to drop by and visit?"

I had seen Victoria's hit TV shows. She played a ruthless queen in an HBO-style power drama. Beautiful, brilliant, and absolutely lethal. On screen, she used her cunning to reclaim her family's corporate empire, stepping on the bones of every man in her way to take the throne.

If I were just a regular viewer, I would have worshipped her, too.

Too bad I wasn't.

Because the first time I met her in person, it was a humiliating trainwreck.

She looked me up and down and asked, "Do you know you look exactly like me?"

I nodded. I told her I knew. She was a massive celebrity; people told me I looked like her all the time, and I always took it as a compliment.

She took a slow sip of her champagne and shot me a venomous, provocative smirk. "Honey, let's face reality. For the past three years, every single time he fucked you, he was thinking of me."

God, what a joke. Three years in his bed. And not a single soul bothered to tell me. I played the clueless, pathetic stand-in the whole time.

Of course, I only found out later that every single script she ever shot was handpicked by Donovan before it even reached her agent. He couldn't stand the thought of her facing a single setback. With his massive financial backing, Victoria's career was a flawless rocket ride to the top.

And me? I had nothing to my name. For years, I looked like I was living the high life, but to the rest of his elite circle, I was just "Donovan's little pet."

Back in the present, Donovan didn't say a word after Owen spoke. He just tapped his expensive fountain pen against the mahogany desk. It took a long time before he finally opened his mouth.

"She should have landed by now, right?"

The question came out of left field. But Owen, a professional who handled billionaires for a living, caught on instantly. He checked the Rolex on his wrist.

"She should have."

Chapter 3

It finally clicked. Donovan was talking about me.

Nice to know he had a shred of conscience left. Too bad I never made it across the Atlantic. As of last night, I was officially dead.

Donovan didn't bat an eye at the response. He just tapped his phone screen awake again, his gaze dropping to the glow.

This time, standing right next to him, I had a front-row seat. The screen was open to our text thread. Half an hour ago, he had sent me a message.

[If you run into any trouble, you can always contact Owen.]

Back in the day, I never let his texts sit on read for more than thirty minutes.

Hearing Owen's response, a harsh breath escaped Donovan's lips. He leaned back in his leather chair. "Perfect."

"Has she reached out to you?"

Owen shook his head. "No, sir. After I handed her the ticket that day, we haven't crossed paths."

Donovan fell silent. His jaw ticked, a muscle jumping beneath the skin, and the air in the spacious office seemed to drop ten degrees.

Picking up on the shift, Owen hesitated before breaking the silence. "Mr. Donovan, should I give Miss Sloane a call?"

Donovan slowly lifted his gaze. His eyes were unreadable. It took a long beat before he answered.

"No need."

He tossed the phone onto the desk. "You never need to update me on her again."

He gave our chat thread one last glance. Dead silence. Still no reply. His thumb hovered over the screen for a split second, then swiped.

He deleted my contact info. Blocked and erased.

Watching him do it, reality slapped me in the face. He hadn't been checking up on me. That text was just his sterile, corporate way of tying up loose ends before throwing me in the trash.

God, it pissed me off. Why did I have to die?

My master plan was to touch down, claim the keys to my free luxury villa, and immediately block his number. But now he got to pull the trigger first. It just felt like such a massive buzzkill.

Annoyed, I swung my leg and kicked Donovan right in the thigh.

Back when things were decent between us, Donovan actually treated me well. He dropped the billionaire attitude. And me? I was always pushing my luck, throwing little tantrums just because I could.

Whenever he ticked me off, I'd kick him exactly like that. The motion was pure muscle memory.

Except this time was different. Back then, if I kicked him too hard, my toes would sting. Now? Nothing.

My foot phased right through his expensive suit pants.

Perfect. Now I was even more annoyed.

After Owen left, Donovan buried himself in his work for hours. During that time, I tried to walk out of his office. But the second my hand brushed the brass door handle, I rubber-banded straight back to Donovan's side. After the second attempt, I got the hint.

I couldn't wander past his immediate radius.

Probably because he was the one who indirectly got me killed.

Too bad I didn't come back as a bloodthirsty poltergeist. Otherwise, I would have dragged him straight down to hell with me.

Right then, a mechanical voice crackled directly into my brain.

[Finally found you.]

I jumped. "Who are you?"

[I'm with the Underworld Extradition Bureau. The system glitched, so the souls of everyone who died in that plane crash are stranded. For the time being, you're trapped beside the person you were most deeply bonded to in life.]

Chapter 4

I quickly spoke up. "Then get me out of here. Oh, by the way, I died with a massive bank account I never got to spend. Any chance I can transfer those funds to my next life?"

God knows I just wanted to be a filthy-rich woman for once.

The Bureau agent sounded a little awkward.

[I'm not entirely sure about that. But hey, your death in this life was incredibly tragic, so maybe you'll die a little prettier in the next one.]

"Fine. Then take me away right now. I'm in a rush to move on."

[I can't do that yet. You have to wait until your funeral is over.]

"Why?"

[Your soul has already formed an anchor to the living world during this glitch. Once the funeral is held, that anchor dissolves. From what I can see, the other victims' families have already started the arrangements.]

[You're kind of pathetic, honestly. It seems like nobody gives a damn that you're dead.]

Talk about a brutal gut punch.

With that final reality check, the mechanical voice vanished from my head. I let out a heavy sigh, mentally flipping through my entire contact list. I quickly came to a depressing conclusion. I was probably going to be a wandering ghost for the rest of eternity.

Hours later, Donovan finally packed up to leave. Two minutes prior, Victoria had called, asking him to pick her up.

I followed him down the elevator and slid into the back of his car. I didn't look at Donovan. I kept my eyes glued to the window. The towering skyscrapers and endless streams of traffic blurred past, making the city look like a fever dream.

It wasn't like I had zero regrets. I was in the prime of my life, and just because I survived one catastrophic, toxic relationship, I ended up a corpse. I was so damn bitter. I hadn't even spent a single penny of that five-million-dollar severance package.

It was incredibly unfair. A phantom lump formed in my throat.

When we pulled up to the studio lot, Donovan stepped out of the car. Moments later, Victoria emerged from the soundstage and threw herself straight into his arms.

Donovan's broad shoulders tensed for a microsecond before he let out a low, soft chuckle. "How was it? Are you tired?"

Victoria nodded, launching into a story about her day on set. Her voice was like velvet. Even the most boring Hollywood gossip sounded vibrant and fascinating coming from her lips.

Their fingers were tightly interlaced. Matching diamond engagement rings caught the late afternoon sun.

Victoria had been in the industry for years, shipped with countless A-list co-stars. But standing there watching her with Donovan, even I had to admit the bitter truth: they looked absolutely picture-perfect together.

Just then, two production assistants walked out of the studio, chatting loudly.

"Did you see the breaking news on Twitter? That flight heading to Paris last night crashed. Not a single survivor. I heard even the bodies were completely charred."

"Yeah, I saw it. I was actually supposed to fly out for vacation and had tickets for that exact flight. Thank God I took this gig at the last minute and had to cancel. Talk about dodging a bullet."

I instantly perked up. Donovan was actually pretty generous when it came to throwing money around. If he found out I was dead, maybe he'd write a check to throw me a funeral.

Right on cue, Donovan froze mid-step before he could open the car door. He slowly turned around, releasing Victoria's hand, and walked toward the two PAs. He stared at them, his face a blank slate.

He spoke, his voice dangerously low. "Last night