Revenge After Death

Chapter 233

“Was it Simmy who gave it to you?” I asked softly, peering anxiously into Steven’s eyes.

Steven avoided my gaze and deflected, “Stephie… How’s Grandma Rosie doing?”

He was changing the subject.

I always knew that there were too many secrets surrounding Steven. I had initially drawn close to him to unravel those very mysteries. Otherwise, Eason wouldn’t have been so

fixated on him.

Yet, the deeper I delved into our connection, the more I realized that not only did Steven harbor numerous secrets, but my original host, Stephany Larson, did as well.

To compound matters, I even began to question myself.

What hidden truth lay buried within my lost memories?

Why did Michael say that I had a psychological illness before? And what kind of illness

was that?

Was it a mere coincidence that I found myself reborn into Stephany’s body?

The more I pondered, the more terrifying the things seemed to me..

I brought Steven back to his ward. The nurse scolded him severely and resealed the punctured needle of the IV.

could get out of bed and move around, I held his hand and

Grandma Rosie,” Michael

feeling somewhat

spoiled rich brat, accustomed to having everything handed to him on a silver platter. He could barely take

here he was, being attentive in

is my grandmother. I can take care of her myself. You can go now,” I said, firmly as

gaze and

awake, leaned against the head of the bed and gazed

dearly

you talk to Mike like that? He’s a nice, kind–hearted man.

one who found out that I was sick and sent me to the hospital in time. If it weren’t for him, I might have never

startled, frowning as

himself with Stephany’s

was he up to?

It was as if he had encountered someone

my

pulled Steven over and introduced him to Grandma Rosie, “Grandma Rosie, this is my husband,

Rosie glanced at Steven, looking somewhat

for so long, yet you’ve never bothered to come visit me. Instead, Mike was the one who has

from an illness. He probably can’t even take care of himself, let alone you. It’s

how much weight I placed on my

the me that he had “killed“, or rather, the me who had lost an important memory

the grief of my parents‘ death. My restless