The Neglected Wife's Return To The Top

"I love her. I've always loved Kathryn."

The words, carried on the cool evening breeze, sliced through the manicured perfection of the Saunders' estate garden. Anabel Blackwell froze, her hand hovering inches from a trellis of white roses.

It was her husband's voice. Low, strained, and raw with a grief she had mistaken for mourning.

But the name he spoke was not hers.

The air in her lungs seemed to evaporate. Three years. Three years of a quiet, sterile marriage, of maintaining the flawless image of Clark Saunders' wife. She had told herself the polite distance, the lack of touch, was his form of respect.

Now she knew. It was revulsion.

Hidden by the deep shadows of the rose bushes, she saw them. Clark stood with his back to her, his shoulders slumped in a way she'd never seen. Opposite him, his best friend, Blake Sterling, wore a grim expression.

"Then why did you marry Anabel?"

Blake's question hung in the air, sharp and direct. It was the one she'd never dared to form herself.

Clark's laugh was a harsh, broken thing. "The trust. You know the terms. And I had to stay here, in this house. Kathryn… after Aidan died, she was falling apart. I had to be here to protect her."

Protect her.

The word wasn't a sharp impact. It was a slow saturation, seeping into every memory. The occasional thoughtful gestures, the birthday gifts chosen by his assistant, the rare, tired smiles—all of it a performance. A lie constructed to keep his place in this house, to guard his brother's widow.

His true love.

Her fingers curled into her palms. The short, clean nails dug into her skin, the sting a distant anchor. She was a piece of furniture in their story. A functional object in the grand, tragic love story of Clark and Kathryn Saunders.

The stone sculpture of a weeping angel felt cold and unyielding against her back as she leaned against it. She needed to be sick. She needed to scream.

Instead, she drew one deep, shuddering breath.

Then another.

She straightened her spine, smoothed the front of her black silk dress, and stepped out from the shadows.

The crunch of her heels on the gravel path made both men jolt. Clark's face was a mask of shock, his eyes wide with a flicker of panic.

"Clark," she said. Her voice was impossibly calm, a flat, dead thing. "Let's get a divorce."

"Ana?" He took a step toward her, his expression shifting to bewildered concern. "What are you talking about? What kind of day is it to say something like that?"

He wasn't asking why. He was scolding her for her timing. For disrupting the sanctity of his grief.

Before she could answer, the head butler, Maria, rushed onto the terrace, her face pale.

"Mr. Saunders! It's Miss Kathryn! She's fainted in her room!"

Clark's face transformed. The confusion, the mild irritation—all of it vanished, replaced by raw, undiluted terror. He didn't say another word to Anabel. He didn't even look at her.

He shoved past her, his shoulder knocking her off balance.

"Get the doctor! Now! Where's Leo? Don't let Leo see his mother like this!" he yelled, sprinting toward the main house.

Anabel stumbled, her hand catching on the rose trellis. Thorns bit into her palm, a sharp, clean pain that did nothing to distract from the sudden, hollow space in her chest. She watched his retreating back, and something inside her went cold and still.

The next day, he found her in the library. She hadn't slept, her mind already meticulously cataloging her separate assets and mentally drafting an email to a ruthless divorce attorney.

He didn't apologize for knocking her over. He didn't ask about the bandage on her thorn-torn palm. He stood before her, his jaw set, his eyes holding the cool authority of a man managing a minor inconvenience.

"I'm willing to overlook whatever nonsense you were spouting in the garden," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Kathryn is in a fragile state. And Leo needs stability. I've had Maria prepare the guest suite next to the master. They'll be moving in for a while."

Anabel looked up from the book she wasn't reading. She didn't feel the urge to cry, nor did she feel the need to remind him that this was supposed to be their home. That home didn't exist. Perhaps it never had.

"The suite next to the master," she repeated, her voice devoid of any inflection. "I see."

A frown creased his brow, the same one he wore when a subordinate was being slow to understand a directive. "Ana, don't be difficult about this. She's my brother's widow. I'm all she has right now. Are you really going to throw a tantrum over a grieving woman and her child needing a place to stay?"

He didn't even believe she was capable of leaving him. He thought her demand for a divorce was just a desperate plea for his attention.

A brittle, humorless sound escaped her lips. It was all a one-woman show. Her marriage, her love, her sacrifices. A stage perfectly set for his tragic devotion to another woman. If she fought him now, he would just paint her as the jealous, hysterical wife. To get out of this cleanly, she needed time. She needed him blind to her next move.

She stopped arguing. She simply looked at him, her eyes completely empty of the adoration he had taken for granted for three years.

"Fine," she said.

The word hung in the air between them. He let out a short breath, clearly thinking it was her surrender. He thought she was falling back into line.

He didn't know it was a promise.