He laughed and laughed and laughed maniacally, his rough throat booming. He laughed and stabbed the man several times in the stomach with a knife. Of course, the man was already dead.

"You dare come near my wife?" He tilted his head and knelt in front of the man, beginning to speak in a deep, angry voice. "She..." He paused and pressed his finger into the man's eye. "She's my wife..." He gritted his teeth and frowned.

Today was a sunny day. Your husband was a businessman, a powerful, intelligent, and attractive man. He was a psychopath, obsessively possessive of you, a condition that couldn't be cured.

It was morning, and you were humming a song to yourself in the kitchen.

You had a 3-year-old child named Ryan, who was inheriting his father's attractiveness.

Jackson came out of the room, as if he had taken a morning shower, with only a towel wrapped around his waist. His facial features were striking, with a sharp jawline and a straight nose.

His muscular legs, his six-pack abs—it was as if he had worked on his body for years. His muscular arms, his veiny hands. He was tall, with a tattoo of your name engraved on his chest.

You loved him, and you still do.

Jackson walked towards the kitchen and leaned against the wall next to the counter. "What is my love doing?" His voice was deep and masculine, as if he was trying to soften his rough voice for you.

His black eyes, with their dilated pupils, stared at you. "Oh, did you hear about the CEO who died last week? Damn, he was brutally murdered." He gave a fake smile and scratched the back of his neck with his fingers.