Chapter 4: A Wedding Scripted by Greed

Mason moved out of our old home and bought a new place in the suburbs. Savannah stood in front of the mirror, surrounded by expensive clothes and handbags, trying them on one after another, beaming with joy.

The new house was big and bright, with a sprawling backyard and a kitchen Savannah filled with laughter. She twirled in front of the mirror, modeling a silk dress, her eyes shining. The closet overflowed with new things, each one a symbol of the life she was building with Mason. I hovered by the window, watching the sun set over the neighborhood. I felt both proud and left behind. The feeling was bittersweet.

"Mason is so generous. We just got together and he’s already bought me so much. If we get married, won’t he be even more generous?"

Her words were light, almost teasing, but I caught the glint of calculation in her eyes. She was already picturing the future—weddings, parties, a life of comfort. I wondered if she ever thought about the little things, the quiet moments that made a marriage real. My chest tightened.

System: [Host, don’t worry. I’ll make sure you marry Mason. Half the Whitaker family fortune will be yours.]

The voice was smug, almost oily. Goosebumps prickled my skin. Was this all just a game to her? Was Mason just a prize to be won?

Savannah’s eyes curved with her smile. "Of course I trust you. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have gotten close to Mason at all."

She stroked the system’s ego, her voice honey-sweet. It was unsettling, watching her play both sides—sweet to Mason, calculating with the system. I wondered if he saw through her, or if he was just grateful for the warmth she brought. I wished I could warn him.

Then, her expression turned bitter. "It’s all that witch Ellie’s fault. Even dead, she’s still haunting us. If not for her, I’d already be married to Mason. And that whole three-year candle ritual—ugh!"

Her words stung, sharp as broken glass. I wanted to shout, to defend myself, but my voice was just a whisper on the wind. I watched as she scowled at my picture on the mantel, her jealousy simmering just beneath the surface. I felt a surge of anger.

On the day Mason and I got married, the pastor asked if he’d be faithful to me for life. Mason nodded solemnly and said he would. But that night, I secretly made him promise:

The ceremony was small, sunlight streaming through stained glass windows. Mason squeezed my hand, his eyes shining with tears. Later, under the soft glow of the porch light, I pulled him close and made him promise—just three years. I wanted him to live, to love again if I couldn’t stay. My voice shook as I spoke.

"Babe, if I die, just three years—three years is enough. I don’t want you to promise me forever."

I saw the confusion in his eyes, the way he wanted to protest. But I pressed a finger to his lips and made him swear. Forever was too heavy a burden for anyone to carry. I wanted him to remember me, but not be chained to the past. I kissed his cheek, sealing the promise.

I don’t know if it’s a real tradition or if Mason just remembered my words that night. Either way, this outcome is for the best. Mason’s destined heroine appeared, and I didn’t make him promise something he couldn’t keep. Three years of grief was enough—he should move on now. For the rest of his life, Savannah should be the one by his side. I closed my eyes, trying to accept it.

Maybe somewhere in the world, there are other people who make promises like that. Maybe it’s not about tradition, but about love—knowing when to let go. I tried to remind myself that this was the right thing, even when my heart rebelled. I let the thought settle in, heavy and true.

Savannah sulked for a bit, then cheered up again:

She tossed her hair, slipping into a new dress, her mood shifting like the weather. I watched her rehearse a smile in the mirror, practicing the perfect look for Mason. She was determined, I’ll give her that. Her ambition was relentless.

"Anyway, the three years are almost up. System, you’d better help me this time. I want a beautiful wedding and to become Mrs. Whitaker in style."

She spun around, her eyes sparkling with ambition. The future she pictured was bright and glittering, full of parties and promises. I wondered if she ever thought about the vows, the quiet moments in between. My heart ached for Mason.

[Don’t worry, Host. I’ve been rated Best System three years in a row—nothing will go wrong.]

The system’s voice was smug, like a salesman bragging about his latest award. I rolled my eyes, wishing I could reach through the veil and unplug whatever powered that thing. Still, Savannah seemed comforted by its words. I felt a pang of helplessness.

Savannah was satisfied and praised it offhandedly:

She preened, tossing compliments at the system like confetti. It was a strange partnership, but they seemed to understand each other. I wondered if Mason ever felt the cold edge beneath her warmth. The thought unsettled me.

"Of course I trust you. Back when Ellie found out she had cancer, she kept fighting so hard. If you hadn’t interfered, maybe she really would’ve survived."

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. I stared at her, horror creeping up my spine. Did she really believe that? That my death was just an obstacle to be cleared away? I felt sick.

The system sounded smug:

[I just accelerated the spread of her cancer cells. It was nothing.]

The words were cold, clinical. I felt bile rise in my throat. My death hadn’t been fate—it had been orchestrated, manipulated by something inhuman. The realization was dizzying. My world spun.

Savannah nodded. "Yeah, you did well. It’s weird though—why did that witch suddenly start getting regular check-ups? In the plot, she wasn’t supposed to find out until it was too late..."

She sounded almost annoyed, like my fight for survival had been an inconvenience. I wanted to scream, to shake her, but my hands just passed through empty air. The unfairness of it all pressed down on me, suffocating. I wanted to cry out.

I couldn’t listen anymore. My mind was a mess, those words crashing over me until I felt dizzy and sick. So that’s how it was. My death wasn’t an accident. I’d found out early, and I should’ve been able to treat it. But it was because the system interfered that I ended up dying.

The truth was like ice water, numbing and sharp. I replayed every doctor’s visit, every hopeful moment, realizing it had all been for nothing. The anger burned in my chest, hot and wild. I wanted justice. I wanted to shout the truth from the rooftops. My hands shook.

I couldn’t help but lunge at the culprit who ruined me. But I forgot—I was just a drifting, transparent soul now. My arm passed right through Savannah’s throat.

The frustration was overwhelming. I swung at her, desperate to make her feel something, anything. But my hand met only air, my fury dissolving into helplessness. The world felt colder, emptier than ever. I screamed inside.

Savannah must have felt something; she sneezed.

She shivered, rubbing her arms, and glanced around nervously. I almost laughed at the irony—a ghost haunting her, but unable to do a damn thing. The helplessness was maddening. I wished, for just one moment, that I could make her see the pain she’d caused.

"Is Ellie cursing me from the grave? I haven’t even started with her yet. If I’d known, I should’ve just finished her off the first time I saw her, instead of waiting for the story..."