Her bloodshot eyes, dark circles, and chapped lips betrayed sleepless nights. She wasn't bluffing. Amanda was missing, and her whereabouts remained unknown for the past few days.

Chase turned and walked away silently, but Kimberly's voice followed him. "Chase, if anything happens to Amanda, I won't forgive you!"

I reached out to smooth Kimberly's messy hair, but my hand passed right through her. I sighed, resigned. "Kimberly, I'm sorry I let you down. You deserve happiness."

I could no longer touch her, nor could my voice reach her. Chase's departure pulled me along. After a phone call, he drove off, his face etched with worry. He stopped again and dialed his assistant. "Look into Amanda…"

I almost laughed. The man I had loved for years was only now beginning his search, four days after my disappearance. By now, my body must be decomposing.

Just then, Nicole burst into the car. "Chase, why have you been avoiding me lately?"

Nicole pouted, hurt and upset. Wary of their relationship being exposed, Chase quickly hung up on his assistant. He looked exhausted, barely able to cope with Nicole. "Nicole, I have a meeting. Unless it's urgent, I need to return to the office."

Nicole clung to his arm. "Chase, my art exhibition opened today. Aren't you coming to support me?"

That snapped Chase back to reality. Buried in work, he'd overlooked both Amanda's disappearance and Nicole's exhibition, a project she'd spent a year preparing for.

"My bad. Let's head over."

I chuckled at the phone he left behind. Years of devotion, all for nothing. Nicole's exhibition was at the Coconut Palm Gallery, a place I'd dreamed of showcasing my own work. Nicole and I had loved painting since childhood; our father even secured us a mentor from the Central Academy of Fine Arts. My teacher always said I was the most gifted student he'd ever had.

Being a Kennedy meant painting was merely a hobby. Our parents pushed us toward finance, expecting us to manage family affairs or support our future husbands, not pursue art professionally. Over the years, I secretly painted, dreaming of my own gallery. I died before realizing that dream, and here was Nicole, living it.

She was always different. Our family had only recently found her and showered her with affection. If she wanted the stars, they'd find a way to give them to her. How could they let her shoulder any responsibility?

Trailing behind them, I felt a pang of sadness. My death was so sudden, leaving so much undone. I overheard the compliments: "Ms. Kennedy's work is stunning. What a talent!"

"No wonder she's so blessed. This 'Water Lilies' piece is breathtaking."

Water Lilies? My eyes fell on the painting, unmistakably mine. As I scanned the room, I saw more of my paintings—those from my basement studio—now displayed in Nicole's gallery. How could she so brazenly claim my work unless she knew I was dead and couldn't return?

It was her. She must have had me killed.