Buying Flowers for My Ghost
Language: en
Eight months into my pregnancy, the disembodied voice I thought I’d escaped forever flickered back to life inside my head. [We’re sorry, Host. Your ninety-ninth attempt to reform the villain has failed. System-wide termination is imminent.] I froze. The defense I was about to mount died on my lips as the door opened, revealing my boyfriend. Drew was no longer wearing the faded, six-dollar thrift-store tees he usually lived in. He stood in the doorway draped in bespoke cashmere, looking impossibly wealthy, impossibly cold. "I talked to my wife," he said, his tone as casual as if he were…