The Wife He Called No One

Blood pooled warm and dark against the white marble beneath my trembling legs.

"Stop performing," my husband, Adrian, sneered, stepping over my fingers.

He wrapped his tailored coat around Sophia, inhaling her heavy gardenia perfume.

"I've got you, darling," he murmured, his voice thick with protective heat.

He abandoned me and our dying child on the freezing floor.

I dragged a numb hand into my pocket, gripping an encrypted phone.

"Tell my grandfather," I gasped, tasting copper.

"It's time to collect."

***

"Did you really think a pair of cheap pearls would make me forget?" Adrian had asked.

"They aren't cheap," I had replied, my voice shaking. "I saved up for months."

"Then you wasted your money."

That was right before he hurled the custom cufflinks against the study wall. The silver snapped. The pearls scattered.

Now, forty minutes later, my knees scraped against the rough stone of the front steps, bleeding into the freezing November rain. I dug my numb fingers into the mud, searching for the shattered remains of my husband's birthday present.

"Sophia."

The name drifted through the heavy downpour. I stopped digging.

Above me, warm yellow light spilled from the study window. Adrian's tall silhouette paced past the glass. He held his phone to his ear, his voice carrying a light, eager cadence I had not heard in three years of marriage.

"I told you I'd handle it, Sophia," he said, the words muffled but unmistakable through the pane. "Just get on the plane. I have everything ready for you."

My jaw tightened. The beige cashmere scarf clung to my neck like a slab of ice. I ignored the shivering in my spine and dragged my palm across the dark concrete. My fingertips brushed against a small, hard sphere wedged between two paving stones.

The seventh pearl.

I squeezed it in my palm. The smooth surface dug into my skin, a tiny anchor in the storm.

The heavy front door swung open, throwing a stark rectangle of light over my hunched form.

"Get up."

I flinched and looked over my shoulder. Adrian stood on the threshold, adjusting the collar of his tailored wool coat. His dark eyes swept over my mud-stained knees and dripping hair.

"I almost have all of them," I said, keeping my gaze on the wet stone.

"Leave the garbage on the ground," he said. "You look pathetic."

I pushed myself up, my legs trembling from the cold. I extended my right hand and uncurled my fingers.

"I found them," I said, my voice barely a whisper against the wind. "The jeweler can fix the silver settings. They were your favorite."

"I don't want them."

"You wore them to the gala last week. You told my mother they were perfect."

"I said what your mother wanted to hear, Eloise. Throw them in the trash."

"But I spent months finding these exact ones. You loved the vintage cut."

"I lied." He didn't look at my hand. He didn't look at my face. "Stop crawling in the dirt. It's embarrassing."

"I was just trying to fix what broke," I said.

"Some things aren't worth fixing."

Adrian stepped around me, his leather shoes splashing into a puddle as he descended the stairs. He walked straight toward his silver Bentley parked in the circular drive.

"Adrian, wait," I called out, stepping down after him. "Where are you going?"

"Out."

"It's past midnight. We need to talk about what just happened in the study."

"There is nothing to talk about." He reached the car and grabbed the door handle.

"You threw my gift at the wall," I said, my voice rising over the rain. "You told me my presence suffocates you. We have to talk about this."

"I am done talking."

"You can't just walk away every time you get angry. I am trying to understand what I did wrong."

"You exist," he said, his voice dropping into a lethal calm. "That is what you did wrong."

I took a step back. The rain lashed against my face, stinging my cheeks. "You don't mean that."

"I mean every word." He opened the car door, paused, and turned his head. The rain slicked his dark hair back, highlighting the sharp, unforgiving line of his jaw.

"Eloise." His tone was flat, devoid of the warmth I had just heard through the window. "Sophia is coming back tomorrow."

My hand dropped to my side. The pearls clattered against each other.

"Sophia?" The name tasted like ash. "Why is she coming here?"

"Because she belongs here."

"She left three years ago. You told me she was gone for good."

"Things change." He gripped the edge of the car door.

"And where do I belong?" I asked.

"Not here." He stared at me with empty eyes. "When she walks into this house, you walk out."

"You can't just kick me out. I'm your wife."

"We have a piece of paper."

"We have three years of a life together. I built this home with you. You can't erase that just because she decided to buy a plane ticket."

"This was never your home. It was a waiting room."

The words struck me harder than a physical blow. I stared at him, searching for any trace of the man who had held my hand at the altar. There was nothing.

"Watch me," he said. "Don't make it ugly."

He slid into the driver's seat and slammed the door. The engine roared to life. The headlights flicked on, blinding me for a second before the car tore down the driveway, leaving me alone in the dark.

I stood in the rain until the taillights vanished past the Bel Air estate gates.

My wet clothes weighed me down as I turned and walked back inside. The foyer was silent and warm, smelling faintly of his cedarwood cologne. I walked over to the console table. A shallow porcelain dish sat next to the mail tray.

I opened my hand.

One by one, I dropped the pearls into the dish. They made sharp, hollow sounds against the ceramic.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

I did not go upstairs to change. I walked past the grand staircase and pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen. The marble countertops gleamed under the recessed lighting.

I opened the refrigerator. I pulled out a package of smoked salmon and a plain bagel.

My hands moved on autopilot, repeating a morning routine I had perfected over a thousand days. I sliced the bread. I spread the cream cheese. I layered the fish. I placed the sandwich into the toaster oven, watching the coils turn a bright, burning orange.

He liked his breakfast warm. He never ate if it was cold.

When the timer dinged, I wrapped the bagel in foil and slid it into a brown insulated bag.

I carried the bag back to the foyer and set it precisely on the edge of the console table, right next to his spare car keys. It was the exact spot he would pass by tomorrow morning.

I walked into the living room and sat on the edge of the velvet sofa. Water dripped from my hair onto the expensive upholstery, leaving dark, spreading stains.

The house was entirely quiet now.

My phone buzzed in my coat pocket.

I pulled it out. The screen glared brightly in the dim room. It was a push notification from TMZ.

BREAKING: Sophia Vance, missing socialite and rumored former muse of Adrian Ashford, lands at LAX after 3 years.

I stared at the black text on the white background. The words blurred, then sharpened again. I did not blink. I did not cry.

I lowered the phone to my lap.

I reached across with my right hand and touched the diamond band on my left ring finger. I had worn it every single day since the wedding.

Slowly, I twisted the cold metal around my knuckle once.

Then, I twisted it again.