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.

I held his hand and headed to Grandma Rosie’s ward, only to discover Michael had been there all

water, Grandma Rosie,” Michael said, attending to her.

frowned, feeling somewhat annoyed.

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

here he was, being attentive in the

her myself. You can go now,” I said, firmly as I walked over

lowered his gaze and remained silent.

was awake, leaned against the head of the

dearly

like that? He’s a nice, kind–hearted

one who found out that I was sick and sent me to the

as I stared

himself with

exactly was he up

eyes. It was as if he had encountered someone even more

Steven called my name softly.

to Grandma Rosie, “Grandma Rosie, this is my husband, Steven Lincoln. You can call him

at Steven, looking somewhat

married to Stephy for so long, yet you’ve never bothered to come visit me. Instead, Mike was the one who has been taking care of me

Rosie, Steve suffers from an illness. He probably can’t even take care of himself, let alone you. It’s best that he

how much weight I placed on my

was the me that he had “killed“, or rather, the me who

I was immersed in the grief of my parents‘ death. My restless and depressive