Buried Without His Regret Chapter 09
I followed them into Richard’s lavish office.
On the computer screen, forged contracts and stolen assets were out in the open.
When Richard received the call, he was in his apartment, calming Evangeline.
The person on the other end said just one thing, “The audit team is here,” and he shot up from the couch.
The last trace of warmth in his eyes disappeared, replaced by desperation and something unhinged.
Before Evangeline could react, he grabbed her by the hair and slammed her into the wall. “This is all your fault!”
He had his hand tight around her throat as he dialed Frederick’s number.
“Freddie, get 150 million dollars ready, or you can collect your precious Evie’s body.”
There was nothing but silence on Frederick’s end of the line.
I watched Evangeline’s face turn purple under his grip, but her hand, hidden behind her back, quietly hit the record button on her phone.
Moments later, a recording was sent to Frederick, her broken voice layered over it.
“Freddie…save me…”
Frederick played it.
Richard’s hysterical shouting filled the room, mixed with Evangeline’s sobbing.
Then, I heard the sentence that shook something deep inside me.
Richard said, “Shannon’s death worked perfectly. She took the fall for everything. Frederick is too stupid to ever see through it.”
Frederick froze.
The color drained from his face even more completely than when he saw my body in the morgue.
It was the kind of look that came when everything one believed in fell apart, leaving nothing behind.
He didn’t shout or smash anything. He just stood there, completely still, like a hollow statue.
Christopher had already called the police.
By the time Richard and Evangeline reached the airport, the trap was already in place.
They were tackled to the ground at the security checkpoint and cuffed on the spot.
Evangeline saw Frederick standing outside the crowd and started struggling wildly, crying out, “Freddie, save me! I love you! He forced me to do all of it!”
Frederick just looked at her, like she was a stranger.
Then, he turned and walked away without a second glance.
At the police station, a young officer handed him an evidence bag.
“Mr. Mueller, these are Ms. Ortega’s belongings. They were found in her apartment.”
Inside was an old journal.
Frederick reached out with the same hand that had once crushed my ashes. Now, it was shaking uncontrollably.
He opened it.
It held entries from every day after our marriage. It started with hope and love, then shifted into arguments, silence, and finally endless disappointment.
His fingers moved page by page, slower each time, pressing harder.
Then, he reached the last page.
Then, he reached the last page.
There was only one line.
“Frederick, I thought you were my light. Then, I realized the light wasn’t real, but the cold was.”
The journal slipped from his trembling hands and hit the floor.
He didn’t pick it up. He just stood there, motionless, like something inside him had been completely emptied.
The next day, Frederick held a press conference.
Cameras flashed nonstop. Dressed in a black suit, he looked gaunt, like everything had been drained out of him.
He didn’t read from a script. He faced the cameras and confessed everything, word by word.
“Every one of Evangeline’s paintings was created by Shannon.
“The plagiarism scandal three years ago was orchestrated by me. I fabricated evidence and framed her.
“I’m resigning as CEO of the Mueller Group and stepping down from all positions.”
When he finished, he bowed deeply to the cameras.
“Shannon, I’m sorry.”
I hovered above, watching this judgment arrive three years too late.
I hovered above, watching this judgment arrive three years too late.
After that, he transferred the real estate, stocks, and cash he owned into Mom and Nicholas’ accounts.
He signed the final document and walked away with nothing.
From then on, every night, he drove to the rocky shore where I jumped.
He sat there alone, letting the cold sea wind cut through his thin clothes, from sunset until dawn.
Sleep stopped coming. Severe anxiety took its place, but he refused treatment.
When the doctor tried to help, he only said, “This is the punishment I deserve.”
In the end, Caitlin and Christopher publicly severed all ties with him.
They used every resource they had to organize a formal exhibition of my work, determined to restore my name.
Nicholas took my ashes out of that broken wooden box and reburied them in the best cemetery outside the city.
The new headstone had no photo, only a single line engraved, “Genius painter Shannon Ortega, forever untarnished.”
The day of the exhibition, the turnout was overwhelming.
The city’s elite filled the gallery, standing before my paintings and offering genuine praise.
The city’s elite filled the gallery, standing before my paintings and offering genuine praise.
Frederick came too.
He looked like a ghost out of place in the world, dressed in worn, faded clothes, blending into the crowd.
He moved past painting after painting until he stopped in front of the original “Deep Sea,” displayed at the center of the hall.
It was the piece I had poured the last of my life into, a vast darkness with a single, struggling beam of light.
He lifted his hand as if to touch the deep blue, but his fingers trembled violently in midair.
The next second, he covered his face, and his shoulders trembled.
A broken, animal-like sound forced its way out.
He couldn’t hold himself up any longer. His knees gave out, and he collapsed to the floor, kneeling before the painting in front of everyone.