Three years after my death, my music mogul husband, Andrew Scott, sued my estate.
His claim? That the bone marrow I donated to his starlet lover, Molly Clarkson, was failing her, causing her leukemia to relapse.
I' m a ghost, tied to him, forced to watch him rage.
He held a press conference, signing over my life' s work-my entire unreleased song catalog-to Molly, calling it a "gift."
When that stunt didn' t work, he stormed to my family' s modest home, accusing me of faking my death, convinced I was just hiding.
He dismissed my younger sister, Stella' s, pleas that I was dead, then brutally attacked my beloved three-legged terrier, Banjo, as a twisted warning.
He boasted about financially bailing out my family, twisting the knife.
But Andrew didn' t know the whole truth.