He Begged Me to be His Wife again

Toby went still for a heartbeat — just one — before forcing out a soft laugh. The same kind of easy, practiced laugh he used to win me over back in college. He reached out, brushing his hand over my hair the way someone might comfort a restless child after a bad dream. “You’re thinking too much again,” he murmured, his voice smooth, rehearsed, too steady to be real. “You need rest, Aria. How could I possibly be Toby? Drink your milk, calm down, and try to sleep, alright?” He took a slow step backward, pretending to give me space, though every word he’d just said hit like shrapnel. “That baby you’re carrying,” he added softly, “he’s the last living proof of Toby Mercer’s bloodline. I’ll make sure he comes into this world safe. That’s a promise I’ll keep.” I said nothing. My eyes stayed low. If I looked at his face, I might break. That face — that lie wearing the skin I once kissed without hesitation. “You should leave,” I whispered, the words nearly catching in my throat. “I just want to lie down. I’m tired.” That’s when I heard her. “Babe?” The sound came from across the hall. I turned just in time to see her — Marcelline — standing at the door, draped in my ivory silk robe. The one Toby gave me on our anniversary. The one with the tiny embroidered D stitched near the hem. She didn’t even bother to pretend. “My head’s pounding,” she said, her voice frail, deliberate. “Will you come to bed? I need one of your massages… the kind that makes me forget I’m dying.” The hallway went silent. Toby froze between us — torn between two women, both carrying his ghosts. He turned, looking from her to me, something unreadable flickering behind those familiar gray eyes. Finally, he exhaled and gave me a small nod. “Get some rest,” he said gently, before walking to her and slipping an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him, naturally, like that space was always meant for her. And together, they disappeared into the dim hallway, leaving me alone in the doorway — staring after them long after the light faded. Not because I was shocked. But because I wasn’t. --- I first met Toby Mercer seven years ago in Milan, at a private art auction hosted by one of Italy’s oldest crime families. I wasn’t supposed to be there. I didn’t belong in that room — not among men who dealt in blood and beauty. But then he looked at me. One glance — sharp, assessing, coldly amused — and everything in me shifted. He didn’t ask for my name. He asked who owned me. When I told him no one did, his lips curled into that dangerous half-smile — the kind that said he’d just found something worth stealing. From that night, he pursued me like an unsolved crime. Relentless. Possessive. Mercilessly precise. And God help me, I let him in. Every piece of him. Every sin. Two years later, he proposed on the rooftop of the Museo Mercer. It was midnight. The city stretched below us, alive but silent. No audience, no cameras — just him, the stars, and the ghost of something sacred. He pulled out a velvet box and revealed a ring — an heirloom of the Mercer bloodline, glinting with the weight of generations. “Aria,” he’d said quietly, “if the world burns, I want to burn beside you.” And I said yes. Later, with his hand on my stomach and his mouth against my temple, he told me, “This baby came at the right time. He’s proof of us. Our beginning. I’ve never been happier, amore mio.” Now that same man had vanished from my wedding in a storm of fire and metal — only to reappear in another woman’s arms, under another name. For a woman with only months left to live. I didn’t even know when he started slipping away from me. All I know is that the man who once swore I was his home now feeds me warm milk and calls it kindness. --- The next morning, a knock came at my door. “Aria,” his voice called softly. “It’s time for your check-up. You ready?” I was bent over, tying my shoes, when the sound of footsteps paused outside. Then came her voice — thin, trembling, fragile. “Leon…” Marcelline. She sounded like a dying actress delivering her last line. I froze. Her steps echoed faintly, unsteady, until a soft thud made my heart lurch. “I—I don’t feel good…” she breathed. “Something’s… wrong…” Then her knees buckled. “Marcelline!” Toby — no, Leon — rushed to her, catching her before she hit the ground. “Damn it,” he muttered, his tone filled with panic, “you didn’t take your meds again, did you? You can’t just wander around like this.” He gathered her into his arms with delicate care, lowering her onto the couch as if she were something holy. His hands trembled slightly as he brushed the hair from her face. “You can’t scare me like that again, babe,” he whispered, voice breaking at the edges. From behind the cracked door, I watched — silent, invisible. Then his head turned sharply. He saw me. For a second, something flashed in his eyes — guilt, maybe. Then he straightened and masked it with calm efficiency. “Sorry, Aria,” he said, his tone professional now. “Marcelline’s not doing well. I can’t leave her alone today.” He pulled out his phone. “Claudio and Renzo will take you to your appointment. The car’s ready outside, and your doctor’s expecting you.” His every move was measured. Perfect. Untouchable. Behind him, Marcelline tilted her head slightly and smiled — a faint, smug curve of the lips that told me she knew exactly what she’d won. My hand instinctively went to my belly. My chest burned. But the tears came anyway — soundless, hot, relentless. --- Later, I sat alone on a metal bench in the corner of the Mercer private hospital, the cold biting through my coat. The ultrasound photo trembled between my fingers — a small blur of life glowing faintly on black and white paper. The doctor had smiled earlier, pointing at it proudly. “That’s your baby,” he’d said. I had smiled back, barely. Then wiped my tears away hard enough to hurt. Because I couldn’t fall apart here — not in this place where the Mercers saw and heard everything. This was their ground. Their walls. Their cameras. Their power. I stood, exhaling slowly, and made a decision. Pulling out my phone, I called the two men assigned to guard me. “I feel a bit dizzy,” I lied. “I want to walk a little before heading back. You can go on ahead.” They hesitated, but obedience was carved into their bones. They left. As the sleek black car rolled out of the gate, I stepped out from behind the marble column and flagged down a passing taxi. “Another hospital,” I told the driver quietly. “A private one. Away from here.” Somewhere the Mercers couldn’t reach. Somewhere I could finally disappear — if I chose to.

Just moments before the nurses wheeled me into pre-op, my phone buzzed on the tray beside me. One new notification. A message. No text, no greeting—just a single video file from Marcelline. I should’ve ignored it. Deleted it without a glance. But curiosity, or maybe pain, got the better of me. My trembling fingers tapped on the screen, and suddenly, the image flickered to life—Toby and Marcelline. She was straddling his lap, his mouth buried against her neck, whispering something low and rough that made her laugh breathlessly. Her nails scraped down his chest with the confidence of someone who had done it countless times before—someone who knew every way to make him fall apart. Then he kissed her. Slow. Possessive. Too familiar. The kind of kiss that used to silence the world for me. But it wasn’t the kiss that killed me. It was what I noticed next. When he leaned back, his shirt slipped off his shoulder, revealing a mark—a small, red, spade-shaped birthmark just below his collarbone. That was when I knew. Toby. Not Leon. Not anyone else. Him. A bitter smile curved my lips, the kind that belongs to someone who just found their own grave. There it was—the final confirmation. Yet, somehow, my heart still refused to let go. It kept reaching for one last illusion. One last miracle. So I did the one thing I promised myself I wouldn’t. I called him. If he answered… if he heard my voice… if he still chose me, I would let everything go—the betrayal, the lies, the fake death, the other woman. I would forgive it all for our child. For the love that refused to die no matter how much it bled. The phone rang once. Twice. Then a click. “Aria…” His voice came through, deep, tired, familiar. “I’ve got something to take care of. Let the driver take you home. We’ll talk when I’m back.” Then came a sound that froze my veins— A moan. Soft at first, then louder. A woman’s moan. Marcelline’s. There was no mistaking her. No hesitation. She didn’t even try to muffle it. Another sound followed—her voice trembling, breathless, calling his name. “Toby…” The line went dead. A dull beep… beep… beep… filled the silence. I didn’t cry this time. My tears were gone. My soul was dry. I looked at the nurse beside me, my voice hollow, steady. “It’s fine,” I whispered. “Go ahead with the procedure.” And as the lights above blurred into white, I swore to myself— The next time he hears my voice… will be the last time he ever breathes in peace. --- By the time I returned home, darkness had already swallowed the sky. The marble floors gleamed cold beneath my shoes as I stepped into the house—and there he was. Toby. Still wearing Leon’s mask, still pretending to be the noble twin, the grieving man who had lost his brother. “The driver said you went shopping after your appointment,” he said lightly, smiling like nothing was wrong. “You didn’t buy anything?” His tone was casual, teasing. Normal. As if I hadn’t just buried the only part of him he didn’t even know existed. Halfway through, his smile faded. His gaze locked on mine. He noticed—the redness in my eyes, the swollen lids, the dry tracks of salt on my cheeks. “Aria… what’s wrong? Did something happen?” His voice softened. “Did you… see something at the hospital? Did you miss Toby again?” He moved closer, pretending concern. His hand hovered near my arm. “It’s alright,” he murmured gently. “That baby inside you—that’s Toby’s legacy. That’s what keeps him alive. Hold on to that.” I stared back at him. Those eyes—gray, smoke-soft, full of that familiar flicker that used to melt every part of me. The same eyes I once trusted with my entire being. And now, they were the same ones I saw in that video, looking up at Marcelline while she moved over him like I was already dead. I turned away without a word and walked straight to my room. --- The moment I hit the bed, exhaustion claimed me. For the first time since his “death,” I slept without tears, without nightmares. In my dream, he was eighteen again—nervous, flushed, his hands sweating as he confessed under a fading sunset. “Aria… I really like you. Will you be my girlfriend? I swear I’ll treat you right.” And I believed him. Maybe because the sky was gold that day. Maybe because his eyes carried a kind of light I would never see again after the lies. I said yes. And that one yes destroyed me forever. --- When I woke, morning light was spilling through the curtains, too bright, too cruel. I was still sitting in bed, lost in nothingness, when the door creaked open. Marcelline walked in. The woman who ruined everything. The one he gave me up for. But she didn’t look like someone dying. Her skin glowed. Her cheeks were flushed. Her lips painted. And she was wearing my silk robe—the ivory one trimmed with lace. The same one Toby used to say made me look like “heaven wearing sin.” And worse, I could smell it—the faint trace of my perfume. The one I wore the night he proposed. Marcelline stopped at the foot of my bed, arms crossed, lips curling into a smile that was all venom and vanity. “You know why I sent you that video?” she asked, voice honey-sweet but sharp as glass. “You honestly thought he was Leon? You believed I was your sweet sister-in-law?” She laughed softly, stepping closer, her tone darkening. “Wake up, darling. I’ve been sharing your husband’s bed all this time.” The words hit like shards. Her laughter rang through the room—rich, cruel, mocking. She spun once, the robe swirling around her legs. “Poor Aria,” she said with a sigh of fake pity. “You really thought I was dying? God, no. I just needed space… and a reason for people not to question why he was always with me.” She turned, eyes glinting like a knife. “I had Toby the moment I came back. He was easy to win. Tell me, do you honestly think a man like him would ever choose someone as fragile as you over me?” Her voice dropped to a deadly whisper. “Oh, and before I forget—” she leaned in, smiling wider, “I’m the legal wife. Paper signed. Seal stamped. You were just the warm-up act.” She laughed again, a victorious, echoing sound that filled the room like poison. “Toby Mercer may have loved you once, Aria,” she said, voice soft but cruel. “But he’s mine. Always has been. Always will be.”

Marcelline expected a breakdown. She wanted to see tears. She wanted screams. But I didn’t give her either. Without even glancing her way, I walked straight to the bed, lay down, and turned my back to her as if she were nothing more than a passing noise. Her voice rose, sharp and desperate. “Say something! Come on, cry! Shout at me like you used to!” But I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. I simply put on my headset, closed my eyes, and let her anger dissolve into the music’s hum. When she realized I wouldn’t respond, the sound of her frustration filled the room—then a door slammed hard enough to shake the frame. And in the echo that followed, silence stretched wide and calm. For the first time in months, it felt like triumph. --- That same night, something unexpected arrived. A letter. Hand-delivered. Black velvet envelope. The seal pressed deep in gold—one symbol recognized only by the elite and the dangerous. The crest of the Del Rossi Vault—an underground auction house run by old mafia bloodlines, known for trading things more valuable than life itself: power, heritage, reputation. And of course, Toby received one too. Naturally. He’d come. I knew he would. And he’d bring her—Marcelline, flawless and painted, draped in white silk like the perfect doll she pretended to be. Good. Let her have her fantasy. Let her believe it was her night to shine. They both thought they were untouchable. But I wasn’t coming to bid. I was coming to sell. --- The venue lay beneath the ruins of the old Velbrunnia Opera House, carved from marble and time. Shadows draped the hall like royalty, and the chandeliers flickered above with the color of champagne and sin. When I entered, the crowd quieted. Conversations faltered. Heads turned. My gown was midnight black—simple, elegant, and lethal. It clung to me like vengeance in silk form, whispering power with every step. My hair was sleek, pulled away from my face; my makeup cut sharp enough to draw blood. And my perfume… the same scent I wore the night he told me he loved me. On my arm was a man no one recognized. Not Gareth. Not any of our former associates. Just a silent broker—tall, dangerous, with eyes like shards of volcanic glass. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. At my signal, he opened the black leather case in front of the crowd. Gasps rippled through the air as the lights caught the treasures inside. Every gift Toby had ever given me. The Mercer family bracelet, passed down through four generations. The emerald choker, worth three hundred million, the same one he kissed me through during our barefoot dance in Tuscany. And finally— My engagement ring. The room went still. Then the whispers started. “Is that—?” “The Mercer heirloom…” “She’s auctioning the ring?” I didn’t acknowledge them. I simply stood there, spine straight, eyes calm, letting the moment burn into memory. When the bidding began, chaos erupted. Numbers flew across the room like bullets. Men shouted, women raised cards, and power rippled through the hall like an electric storm. Halfway through the frenzy, the doors opened. And they walked in. Toby. Marcelline. He wore the tuxedo I had tailored for him—the one designed to make him look untouchable. She wore white, of course. Always white, as if purity could hide her rot. Marcelline smiled as if expecting admiration. Applause. Envy. But then her eyes found me. Standing center stage. Alive. Composed. Untouchable. And she froze. Because I wasn’t sitting in the audience, drowning in sorrow. I was the one commanding the room—auctioning off every piece of the love she thought she had stolen. Toby’s steps faltered. His face went pale. For a second, I saw the ghost of guilt in his eyes. Marcelline leaned in, whispered something into his ear, but he didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. “All proceeds from tonight’s auction,” I announced, my voice even and clear, “will be donated to the Velbrunnia Orphan Recovery Program.” The crowd hushed. Every sound evaporated. Only his stare remained—heavy, hollow, haunted. Then he moved, pushing through the crowd until he stood at the edge of the stage, just as the gavel fell. “One point two million,” the auctioneer declared. “Sold—to the eastern syndicate.” Toby’s voice cut through the silence. “Aria, what the hell are you doing?” I didn’t answer. He took another step closer, eyes burning. “You’re selling your engagement ring? The Mercer heirloom? The emerald necklace I gave you in Tuscany?” His voice cracked. “You once said they were the most precious things you owned. That they meant everything.” I finally looked at him. For one clean, sharp heartbeat, I let our eyes lock. And then, I smiled—cold and final. “They did,” I said softly. “But not anymore.” His breath caught. I stepped back slowly, my voice low, stripped of every trace of emotion. “I’m not grieving anymore.” Another step. “I’m finished.” And I turned away—leaving him standing in a room full of predators, holding nothing but the ruins of what he destroyed. --- The air in the corridor outside felt thinner. Quieter. I walked toward the powder room, heels echoing against the marble, the sound of the auction fading behind me. Then I heard another rhythm join mine— Click. Click. Click. Heels. Sharp. Fast. Marcelline. I didn’t have to look back to know she was there, fury practically radiating off her. I turned the corner, and before I could take another step, her hand caught my arm. She spun me around and slammed me against the wall, eyes wide and wild, lips trembling with rage. “You think you can humiliate me and just walk away?” she hissed. I said nothing. Just looked at her. Calm. Silent. That silence drove her mad. “You ruined everything!” she screamed. “That was my night! They were supposed to look at me! Remember me! Not your pathetic charity stunt and not your goddamn pity act!” Her hand shoved at my shoulder, hard, forcing me backward toward a side door I hadn’t noticed before. It burst open. Before I could react, she pushed me inside. My heels slipped against the icy tile as I hit the floor. The old cold-storage room. By the time I scrambled up, I heard it— Click. The lock sliding into place. “Marcelline!” I shouted, pounding on the door. “Open it, you coward!” Her laughter came through, soft and venomous. “Oh, sweetheart,” she purred, voice distorted through the metal. “I’m not finished watching you suffocate.” Then, colder— “Let’s see how strong you are when the air starts running out.” And then silence. I reached for my phone. No signal. Zero bars. Only the sound of my own heartbeat echoing through the cold.

They discovered me around twenty minutes later. Two guards from the auction house — both young, both visibly nervous — stumbled into the cold storage room where I lay. They looked like they were used to dealing with drunken brawls between billionaires, not half-conscious women on freezing floors. The metal door groaned open, echoing like a sound underwater. My head refused to lift. My mouth wouldn’t form words. My body was locked in place — muscles rigid, fingers stiff, skin clammy from the cold. “Miss—miss! We need medical assistance down here! Now!” one of them shouted, voice trembling. The rest blurred together — noise and motion bleeding into each other. Arms lifted me off the ground. Warmth brushed my skin and I let out a small, broken sound before darkness swallowed me again. Everything after that came in flickering fragments — lights flashing against white ceilings, the hiss of oxygen tubes, the sterile beeping of machines. Someone tucked thick blankets around me, whispering instructions I couldn’t understand. The sounds grew softer, slower. Someone uttered the word trauma like it was nothing more than another checkbox to tick off. Not once did my phone ring. No messages. No missed calls. No sign of Toby. I waited — foolishly — to hear his voice just one more time. But silence was all I got. Later, I found out the reason why. Marcelline had told him I checked into a hotel — that I wanted space to calm down, to “cool off.” And he’d believed her. Instantly. Without a shred of doubt. He always believed her. Always. --- By the time I dragged myself back home, exhaustion had sunk into my bones. My reflection in the hallway mirror looked pale and hollow — a ghost wearing my skin. The house was immaculate. Too quiet. Too polished. Like no one had actually lived there for years. And then I saw him — standing right in the middle of the living room. Toby. Or Leon. Or whoever the hell he decided to be today. He didn’t move as I stepped inside. His posture was rigid, face hard, eyes burning with something I couldn’t name. It was the kind of look that came from hours of rehearsing what to say and how to say it. I barely made it three steps before he thrust a sheet of paper toward me. A medical form. I didn’t need to unfold it to know what it was. I recognized the crisp white of the abortion documents I had tucked deep inside my drawer — a drawer Marcelline must have rifled through while I was gone. She probably handed it to him herself, triumphant. “You wanna explain what the hell this is?” he snapped, voice rough, tight with fury. I didn’t answer. I just looked at him — calm, blank — while he held that paper like it was bleeding in his hands. “You killed my brother’s child?” he shouted, his face twisting. “You—what? Just threw it away? Like it meant nothing? Like it was garbage?” I blinked once. Slowly. He took a step forward, voice rising. “You’re not even sorry, are you? You look proud of yourself. Tell me, Aria — is this your revenge? Is this how you prove you’re strong?” Then it happened. A sharp, echoing crack. His hand connected with my cheek, snapping my head sideways. The taste of iron filled my mouth. I didn’t fall. But I staggered. Before I could even steady myself, another blow came — smaller, but fiercer. His mother. She stood trembling with rage, her pearl necklace clattering against her chest like it could feel her anger, too. “You heartless creature,” she hissed. “You killed our blood! You threw away that baby like it was filth on the street!” Her palm struck me again — a sharp slap that stung across my skin. “Marcelline told us everything,” she seethed. “You never loved this family. You were nothing but a charity case — a pretty little project. And now look at you. Empty belly, empty heart.” Tears rolled down my cheeks. Not because of pain — that had burned out long ago — but because my body didn’t know what else to do. I stood there and let them curse me, let them spit their venom and call it justice. Then something in me hardened. I straightened, wiped the blood from the corner of my lip, and looked Toby in the eye. “Why are you angry?” I said quietly. “If I ended the pregnancy… what does it matter? You’re not Toby. You’re his brother. Remember?” His face went pale. His jaw slackened. But I didn’t stop. “Stop pretending to be him,” I said flatly. Marcelline laughed behind him — a high, brittle sound that cut through the air like glass. “You hear that, baby?” she taunted, stepping closer. “She’s finally figured it out. You’re mine now. She’s just bitter because her fairytale ended.” She leaned lazily against the wall, her grin curving like a blade. “And let’s be honest — she never wanted that baby. She just needed something to make her look pitiful.” That was when I smiled. Not the kind that warms. The kind that wounds. “Or maybe,” I said slowly, holding Toby’s gaze, “you are Toby. And you’ve been pretending to be Leon all along.” The air went still. Even Marcelline froze. “But whichever you are,” I continued, stepping forward, “I don’t care anymore.” My voice didn’t tremble. It didn’t rise. It was calm — deadly calm. “I’m done. I’m not part of this family anymore.” I looked at each of them — the woman who once called me daughter, the man who once promised forever, the mistress who wore my perfume and my place. And I smiled. “Whatever love I had left,” I whispered, “died in that frozen room.” Toby’s expression cracked — his eyes wide, his mouth unsteady. The panic in his face was unmistakable — the kind that hits when you finally realize you’ve gone too far and there’s no way back. “Marcelline—” he started, his voice shaking. But I was already walking away.

That night, there was a knock — faint, almost afraid to be heard. The door creaked open a moment later, but I didn’t bother turning around. He stepped in quietly, every movement deliberate, like even the floorboards might shatter under his weight. In his hands was a small tray — a bowl of soup, a slice of bread, and the same tea he used to bring me when I was pregnant. He placed it down on the bedside table as if afraid to make a sound, then finally spoke — his voice calm, too careful. The same fake composure he always used when pretending to be the concerned brother. “I shouldn’t have hit you,” he said, eyes flicking toward the bruise he caused. “I lost control. You just—took me by surprise. That baby... it was the last piece of my brother left. I didn’t know what else to do.” I didn’t respond. Didn’t blink. My eyes stayed fixed on the wall, as if I could see a world beyond it — anywhere but here. He continued, his tone softening like it might disguise the guilt. “You have to understand, Aria. I only want to protect Toby’s memory. He adored you, and seeing you this broken—it hurts. I just want you to feel safe again. Seen. Even if I can only do that as his brother.” I finally turned my head slightly, meeting his gaze with nothing but ice. “Don’t start pretending to care now,” I said flatly. “You’re years too late.” His jaw tightened, a flicker of pain cutting across his face, but he said nothing. I didn’t touch the food. Didn’t move. He watched me in silence, probably waiting for the version of me who used to cling to him — the woman who’d cry into his chest and forgive him with trembling lips. But she was gone. Frozen to death in that storage room Marcelline locked me in. He sat beside me anyway. The bed sank under his weight, and he draped a blanket around my shoulders like it could erase everything — the bruises, the silence, the truth. “You used to love it when Toby tucked you in,” he murmured. I didn’t answer. Every word that left his mouth felt like venom disguised as comfort. --- Sometime later, I woke to the sound of screaming. Piercing, dramatic, and far too loud to be real. I didn’t even need to check to know who it was. Marcelline. Putting on another show. When I opened the bedroom door, she was already sprawled in the hallway floor — makeup smeared, her silk slip torn, fake scratches clawed across her arms and neck. Blood dotted her skin, shallow enough to look serious, but not enough to actually hurt. She wailed when she spotted me, voice trembling with theatrical horror. “Why are you doing this to me?!” Then came the thunder of footsteps — Toby’s — as he rushed into the scene. His eyes widened at the sight of her, panic flaring instantly. “Marcelline! What happened?!” She threw herself at his legs like some tragic heroine, sobbing uncontrollably. “She attacked me,” she cried between gasps. “I went to check on her, to help her move on. I know she hates me because Leon looks like Toby. I was only trying to comfort her—then she snapped!” She looked up at him, eyes glistening with perfectly timed tears. “I’m dying, Toby. You know I am. I only have months left. And she wants to destroy me before I even reach my grave. If she wants you, let her have you. Just let me die in peace.” Her cries grew louder, almost animalistic, echoing through the hall. I didn’t say a word. Toby’s eyes darted between us — confusion twisting quickly into fury. He moved fast, standing in front of me before I could even blink. His chest heaved, his eyes wild. “What the hell did you do to her?!” he roared. I didn’t even flinch. “She’s dying, Aria!” he shouted. “She has four months left, and she’s been nothing but kind to you. She’s been trying to make peace—and you beat her?” A laugh broke from my throat. Not out of humor. Out of exhaustion. A sharp, bitter sound that tasted like finality. “You’re both pathetic,” I said. Then I slapped him. Hard. With every ounce of betrayal that had built up — for every lie, every manipulation, every time he let Marcelline replace me piece by piece. He just stared at me, stunned, like the mask had finally cracked. “You used to be kind,” he whispered, voice trembling. “You used to be human.” I stepped closer, close enough for him to see the tears I refused to let fall. “And you used to be mine,” I whispered back. “But now, you’re hers.” For a brief moment, something shifted in his face — something real. Like he wanted to confess. Like he might finally admit the truth he’d been hiding since the day he let me mourn him as a dead man. But then Marcelline made a sound behind him — a weak, pitiful cough, followed by a dramatic collapse. She hit the ground perfectly on cue. “Toby… please… I can’t breathe…” That was enough to break his focus. “Shit—Marcelline!” he cried, scooping her into his arms. “Stay with me, baby. Stay with me!” He shouted for help, for the driver, for anyone who could play savior to her act. I didn’t move. I just watched him carry her away — the woman he chose over me, the woman he built this entire nightmare for. --- Moments later, his mother appeared at the end of the hall. Her hair was pulled tight, her eyes burning with disgust. She didn’t even ask what happened. “You’re evil,” she hissed, her words cutting like glass. “I should have seen it sooner. You wore that mask so well — gentle, innocent — but underneath it, you’re cruel. Heartless. A killer.” I tilted my head slightly, unbothered. “I should’ve never let you into this family,” she continued. “You don’t deserve the Mercer name.” I stepped closer and whispered, “Then take it back. I never needed it.” --- Two of Toby’s men appeared, gripping my arms before I could move. I thrashed, kicked, screamed — but it didn’t matter. They dragged me down the long hallway, my feet scraping the floor, my voice echoing uselessly in the silence. No one intervened. At the hospital, they forced the doors open and shoved me inside a sterile room. Marcelline was there. Lying pale and lifeless against white sheets, tubes in her arm, pretending to be a saint near death. Toby’s voice came next — cold and sharp. “Kneel.” I blinked. “What?” He pointed to the floor — a square patch covered in coarse sea salt. “Kneel,” he repeated. “On the salt.” A small, humorless smile touched my lips. “You’ve lost your mind.” “You assaulted my wife,” he said, his tone biting. “You made her collapse. You’re going to kneel there and think about what you’ve become.” He leaned closer, his words dropping low, heavy. “And when she wakes up, you’re going to apologize.”

I didn’t move. I didn’t even let myself breathe too deeply. But I didn’t fight back, either. Instead, I walked—slowly, quietly—to the center of that floor littered with coarse salt, each step crunching under my heels like glass. Then, wordlessly, I sank to my knees. The sting came instantly. It was sharp, raw, like fire biting through skin. Every grain of salt was a knife twisting into my flesh, cutting into my bones. Yet I didn’t flinch. My face remained calm. My spine straight. My mouth sealed shut. Time distorted after that. Every second dragged itself across me like the dull edge of a blade. The air turned thick, heavy, unending. By the end of the first hour, I felt something warm trickling down my shins—blood. By the second, my sight blurred into soft colors, the edges of the room fading into a haze. By the third, I didn’t feel human anymore. I was only a vessel of pain, hollowed out, while they watched to see if I’d shatter. Still, I refused to make a sound. Then, movement. A faint stir from the bed. Marcelline. Like she’d timed it for effect, she fluttered her lashes delicately, let out a faint, pitiful sigh, and turned her head with all the fragility of a woman in a melodrama. “Leon…?” Her voice cracked like porcelain—dainty, weak, rehearsed. He was at her side before I could even blink. He brushed her hair from her face, gazing at her as though she hadn’t been the very reason my world collapsed. She looked around groggily, then—like a saint surveying sin—her eyes landed on me. There I was. Kneeling. Bleeding. Silent. Refusing to fall. “Leon,” she whispered faintly, “why… why is she like that?” “She needed time to think,” he said gruffly. “You could’ve died.” Her eyelids fluttered again. Perfectly timed. Then, predictably, the tears began to slide down her cheeks—slow, graceful, controlled. “Please,” she said softly. “Don’t make her kneel for me. She’s grieving too. She lost her fiancé on their wedding day. I know she resents me, but… I’ve always cared for her.” Her hand trembled just enough as she touched his wrist. “Please, my love. Don’t let hatred consume you. I don’t want my pain to turn you into someone cruel. When I’m gone, promise me you’ll forgive her. Promise you’ll let both of you heal.” Then she broke into sobs—loud, wet, convincing. It was a performance, and she knew exactly when to hit her marks. I couldn’t help it. A sound escaped me—not a cry, but laughter. Low, cracked, bitter. I raised my head slowly. Blood had already seeped through the silk of my dress. My knees were open wounds, my throat parched. And yet all I could do was laugh harder. “You’re not dying,” I rasped. “You’re performing.” “Aria, stop,” Toby snapped, his jaw tightening. “No.” My voice cut through the air like broken glass. “You want me to crumble? You want me to break like her? Then do better than salt and silence. Because no matter how hard you try, you can’t rewrite what you did.” I took a shaky breath. “You abandoned me. Lied to me. Left me drowning in grief while you played house with a woman who wore my perfume and smiled at my grave.” His face hardened. His eyes—those eyes I once trusted—refused to meet mine. Marcelline sniffled softly. “Why are you saying this?” she whispered. “Why are you trying to hurt us?” “Because it’s the truth,” I said simply. “And the worst part is—you both know it.” I pushed myself up. Every movement burned, every nerve screamed, but I stood anyway. Blood ran down my legs, mixing with salt that clung to me like sin. Still, I kept my balance. Still, I met his gaze. “You’re not punishing me,” I murmured, voice almost calm. “You’re punishing yourself. Because I’m still standing, and that terrifies you.” He didn’t respond. He just stared at me, like reality was finally peeling back the mask he’d been hiding behind. --- By the time I was discharged from the hospital, the wounds on my knees had reopened beneath the bandages. The salt had embedded itself deep, like it didn’t want to leave me. When we got home, Toby pretended nothing had happened. He followed me quietly into the house, wearing that same old mask of tenderness. He moved carefully, gently, as if trying to convince himself that everything was fine. He returned a few minutes later carrying a steaming cup of tea. “You should drink something warm,” he said softly, setting it down in front of me. “Ginger. You used to like this, remember?” I stared at the cup, then at him. There was nothing left in my face—no anger, no sorrow. Just emptiness. “I need air,” I muttered. That was all. He reached toward me, maybe to stop me, maybe to pretend he still had the right to touch me. But before his hand met mine, a shrill voice crackled through the intercom upstairs. “Leon—!” Marcelline’s voice screamed, panicked and breathless. “I—I can’t breathe! Please! My chest—it hurts!” Toby’s head snapped up, panic flooding his features. Without hesitation, he ran for the stairs. “Stay here,” he barked over his shoulder. “Don’t go anywhere.” But I was already at the door. --- A taxi waited by the curb. Not fancy, not suspicious—just a plain black sedan with tinted windows. The driver, a middle-aged man in sunglasses, gave me a small nod as I approached. I slipped into the backseat, ignoring the sticky feeling of blood soaking through my bandages. I didn’t flinch, didn’t wince. I’d already spent three hours kneeling on salt. Pain meant nothing now. “Ms. Linton?” the driver asked, tone calm, measured. I nodded. “Good,” he said quietly. “We’re set. Gareth cleared the path. We’ll take the longer route—less traffic, fewer eyes. When we reach Marker 17… it starts.” I said nothing. My eyes stayed on the road winding up the mountainside. --- Halfway up the mountain, the driver spoke again. “We’ll switch vehicles once the report goes public. The stand-in’s already arranged. Female corpse—similar height, build. Gareth had her kept on ice for two weeks. The blast will make sure she’s unrecognizable. But your DNA—blood, hair, ID, jewelry—everything’s ready for confirmation.” I nodded once, slow and deliberate. “Thank you.” He glanced at me through the rearview mirror, studying me for a moment. “Gareth said you’d thank me like that. No fear. No emotion. Just quiet. Like someone who’s already said goodbye to the world.” He was right. Because I had. I died the day of my wedding. The day the helicopter never came. The day I realized I’d been replaced by a woman who cried on cue and smiled at my ruin. I turned to the window, watching the fog thicken outside, and whispered, barely audible, “Make sure they see it. Make sure they believe it.” The driver didn’t respond. He only pressed down on the accelerator. --- Three minutes later, the explosion tore through the silence. It sounded like thunder breaking open the sky. A flash of orange swallowed the trees, then a plume of black smoke spiraled upward. The car flipped twice before bursting into flames, fire blooming against the night. People down the mountain saw it. Some screamed. Others ran for help. A shepherd called it in before the flames died. When rescue arrived, they found what was left of a body—charred beyond recognition. Beside it lay a melted wristwatch, the metal warped but the engraving still faintly legible: Aria. A half-burned wallet lay a few inches away, and what remained of the ID still bore the name: Aria Linton --- Toby’S POV The kettle whistled just as I was pouring Marcelline her tea. My phone buzzed on the counter, and without checking who it was, I answered impatiently. “Yeah?” “Boss! Boss—it’s Ms. Aria—” the voice on the other end stammered. “There’s been an accident. A car crash—she’s gone, sir. Dead. Just happened ten minutes ago!”