Traded For A Dead Man's Ghost

Summary

This was supposed to be our wedding condo, yet here we were, finalizing the designs based on the preferences of my fiancé’s dead brother’s widow.

On the walk-through, Dean frowned at the freshly applied slate-blue accent wall.

“Have this wall repainted,” he instructed the foreman. “Switch it to a warm apricot. Willa always said warm colors make a place feel like home.”

It was our home, a space meant for me, yet his entire aesthetic barometer was calibrated to another woman’s taste.

But this time, I didn't argue, I didn't push back, and I didn't offer a single, petulant complaint.