I Loved Her. Then I Killed Her Dreams

EPISODE 12: "SUGAR, SPOOKS, AND SCREAMING"

A completely uncalled-for, slightly cursed tea party interlude. With 200% more lace.

The brothel was quiet for once.

Unnaturally so.

Like the building was holding its breath.

No whispering from the walls, no bleeding ceilings, no faint screaming from the dumbwaiter shaft. Just… hush.

It was the kind of silence that made your neck itch. That told you something was either very wrong or very enchanted.

The air didn't just settle. It crouched. Waiting.

Then came the faintest, most delicate clink of porcelain.

Like a dainty threat.

A floral tablecloth stretched over the parlor table, softly rippling even though no windows were open. The pattern was all dusty roses and suspicious teacup stains—definitely stolen from some grandmother's haunted attic. It even smelled like faded perfume and unresolved trauma.

The silence wasn't just silence anymore—it felt intentional. Like the walls were shushing themselves in reverence. The wallpaper seemed to hold its breath. Even the shadows clung to corners more tightly than usual, curling inward like they were afraid to trespass on what was unfolding.

Somewhere in the rafters, a ghost spider spun lace-thin webs that hummed with approval.

Dust floated midair like it didn't dare settle.

And at the center of it all:

Soren.

Mafia boss. Living weapon.

Emotionally constipated menace with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and the moral flexibility of a haunted guillotine.

He could skin a man alive without wrinkling his suit.

He once disarmed a hitman using only a broken butter knife and sarcasm.

He was the guy rival bosses called when they wanted someone to disappear.

And today?

He was wearing an apron.

A pink one.

With frilly lace and aggressive embroidery that read:

"Kiss the Cook, or Else"

It hugged his broad frame like it had been custom-stitched by a Victorian demon tailor. Underneath it, he still wore his black slacks and bloodstained dress shirt like a war general hosting a murder brunch.

Across from him, seated in a gilded floating chair like a queen of the afterlife, was his wife.

Aurela.

The ghost. The myth.

The emotionally repressed legend with the voice of a lullaby and a glare that could paralyze men.

She wasn't glowing, not exactly—but she had that dreamy, faded softness of something both precious and untouchable.

Her translucent dress shimmered like memory silk. Her hair floated slightly, as if underwater.

She had no need for makeup; her features were elegant in that ancient way that made you feel like you should be kneeling.

And she held a teacup.

A dainty, invisible one.

"Do you want more sugar, darling?" she asked, her voice lilting like wind through cathedral ruins.

Soren looked at her like a man watching a sunrise that no one else could see.

"No, my love. Your presence is sweet enough."

He said it with the solemn gravity of a priest delivering a sacred vow.

No blink. No smirk. No irony.

Like he didn't just utter the sappiest line known to the universe.

Like he hadn't literally killed a man two nights ago and hidden the body beneath the hydrangeas.

Aurela flushed. Or, well—her cheeks shimmered a little pink, which was as close as a dead person could get to blushing.

"You're disgusting," she muttered, barely above a whisper.

She added another lump of sugar to his cup anyway. Her hand passed through the spoon, which clinked sadly as it fell sideways into the bowl.

Soren didn't even flinch. Just picked up the slightly-too-sweet tea and sipped it like it was the finest blend in the underworld.

There was a plate of macarons between them.

They were… ghost macarons. No one really knew what they were made of. They seemed to hum faintly with regret.

Possibly soul-dust.

Probably both.

One of them giggled when Soren reached for it.

The air shimmered with phantom jasmine. The floorboards creaked gently, not from age—but as if trying to lean in for gossip.

It was a surreal kind of peace.

And then—

CRASH.

The front door exploded open, wooden shards flying like confetti at a haunted birthday party. Heavy boots thundered down the hall. Someone knocked over a lamp.

"BOSS! WE GOT A PROBLEM—"

Soren didn't look up.

He took another sip, pinky slightly raised.

"You just tracked mud on the antique rug," he said, so flat it was terrifying.

Enter: The Gang.

Five mafia boys.

All terrifying in their own right. Built like fridges, dressed like Armageddon. One of them had a machete strapped to his thigh. Another looked like he hadn't blinked in three days.

They were breathing hard. Their vests were stained with something that was definitely not wine.

Marco, the tallest, stumbled forward.

There was blood on his neck. Unclear if it was his.

"Sorry boss," Marco gasped. "But it's urgent—"

"Urgent like you accidentally blew up the supplier's car?" Soren asked coolly. "Again?"

"No! I mean yes. But also no! There's more! Someone's tailing our trucks—"

SLAM.

Soren set his teacup down.

Slowly.

Gently.

Too gently. It made everyone nervous.

The tea rippled slightly from the weight of his hand, as if the liquid itself was flinching. A ghostly curl of steam drifted toward Aurela and curled into the shape of a tiny heart before dissolving. No one saw it but her.

She smiled behind her cup.

He stood.

Unfolded to his full, dark 6'3" frame of mafia gloom like a cursed origami of rage.

And pointed.

At the door.

Like an executioner picking volunteers.

"OUT," he said, voice low.

"But boss—"

"OUT. I AM HAVING TEA WITH MY DEAD WIFE. DO YOU KNOW HOW RARE THAT IS?"

The gang collectively froze.

"...she's here right now?"

"YES. YOU'RE INTERRUPTING OUR GHOST DATE."

From across the table, Aurela gave a soft, regal wave.

She was still hovering three inches off the floor.

A tiny flower had started blooming from the ghost macarons. It squeaked.

Marco's face went sheet-white.

One of the others made a noise like a dying goose.

Another crossed himself and started praying in Latin.

"I TOLD YOU SHE WAS REAL!" Luka yelled suddenly, triumphantly. "Y'ALL CALLED ME CRAZY!"

"You are crazy," muttered Rico. "You licked a haunted knife last week."

"IT TOLD ME ITS NAME."

"EVERYONE. OUT."

Soren didn't yell. He didn't have to.

His voice dropped an octave.

The kind of octave that made cats flee and mirrors crack.

Somewhere upstairs, the chandelier shook.

They scattered.

Shoes squeaking. Vests flapping.

They left behind mud, blood, a few broken buttons, and a faint scent of pure panic.

As the front door slammed behind the gang like a divine punishment, the parlor fell into silence again.

Not just quiet—but reverent. Like the whole house knew it had sinned and was now respectfully afraid.

Soren exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping an inch.

Then he turned.

Picked up his tea.

Sat back down across from his floating wife like absolutely nothing happened.

"Apologies, my love," he said, voice softer now. "Some people have no respect for sacred rituals."

Aurela's lips curved. Not quite a full smile, but close—like a flicker of candlelight in a crypt.

"They seem scared of me," she murmured, swirling her tea with an imaginary spoon that clinked, even though it didn't exist.

"They should be," he replied, entirely deadpan.

She giggled. GIGGLED.

The laugh shimmered through the parlor like music in an abandoned ballroom.

The air tasted sweeter. A dead rose on the mantle perked up just a little, petals trembling like it remembered sunlight.

"You didn't have to threaten to bury them under the roses again," she said, shaking her head, curls shimmering like ink in moonlight.

"Oh no, that wasn't a threat," he said calmly. "That was a pre-scheduled team-building activity."

She laughed again, this time a little louder.

Even the cursed grandfather clock in the corner ticked a little lighter.

They sipped in peace for a moment.

The kind of peace only two people could share after surviving death, betrayal, hauntings, and aggressive lace embroidery.

Then:

"Did you really order them to call me 'Madam Ghost Wife' in the group chat?" she asked suddenly, raising one perfectly translucent eyebrow.

Soren didn't flinch. Just stared into his teacup like it contained the wisdom of the ancients.

"Yes," he said, completely serious. "You earned that title. With death. And sass."

"Soren."

"They fear you, Aurela. It's romantic."

Her eyes softened, lashes fluttering like moth wings. Her spectral fingers brushed the rim of her teacup.

"You're ridiculous," she whispered.

"I'd be worse without you," he whispered back.

That made her go still.

Not in a scary ghost way—but in that breathless, heart-hurting kind of way. Like she wasn't used to being told she mattered. Like she didn't remember how it felt to be loved out loud.

Soren leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. His voice dropped low.

"You keep me anchored," he said. "You always did. Even dead, you're the only thing I don't want to burn down."

Aurela blinked. Twice.

Then gently floated a few inches closer and reached out. Her hand hovered just above his—close enough to feel the chill.

His fingers twitched, aching to hold hers.

"Even now?" she asked. "Even when I'm just a—"

"Don't," he cut her off, sharp but quiet. "You're not just anything. You're mine."

His jaw flexed.

"And I don't share."

Meanwhile, Upstairs…

They'd all squeezed into the storage closet like panicked raccoons.

Marco had two shotguns and a candle. Luka was chewing on a rosary. Rico held up a whiteboard that said:

"DO NOT. MAKE. EYE CONTACT."

Tito whispered, "Do you think she's listening?"

"She sees into your soul and your browser history," Luka hissed.

Rico shuddered. "I'm deleting my bookmarks."

Marco lit the candle.

It exploded in ghost fire.

They screamed.

Back downstairs…

Aurela tilted her head.

"We're out of sugar cubes."

Soren stood instantly. "I'll steal some from the bakery."

"You could just buy them."

"No. I want them to know I took it. For you."

"You're a menace."

"To everyone but you."

She smiled.

Then—

A timid knock.

"Boss?" Luka called. "We brought a peace offering."

"What kind?"

"...Strawberry cake."

The door creaked open.

The slice hovered in midair.

Aurela's eyes gleamed.

The door slammed shut.

Screams.

Soren sipped his tea.

"They learn."

Then he stood. Again.

Extended a hand.

"Dance with me."

No music.

Just obsession.

She hesitated—only a moment.

Then floated forward and placed her cold, flickering hand in his.

They danced.

Among tea cups.

Among ghost cookies.

Among love too stubborn to die.

"You never did learn how to lead," she teased.

"I lead everything," he said. "Except you."

And they danced.

Until the tea went cold.

Until the macarons turned to dandelion dust.

Until even the ghosts in the walls stopped watching and respectfully looked away.

And the gang?

They never interrupted again.

And that photo?

Yeah. They framed it.

In gold.

Hung it right over the pool table at the hideout.

Underneath it, carved in brass:

"RESPECT THE GHOST WIFE."