He Took My Eyes for Another Woman

A mechanical voice echoed in my ear. “Main menu. Messages available. Tap twice to open.” Blind-assist mode. My fingers trembled as I dragged across the glass, counting every vibration, praying I would land on Rowan’s name. I didn’t. A recording played on its own. “Julian, she said ‘Mama’ today,” a woman’s voice laughed softly. “You should’ve been here to hear it. Next time I’ll teach her to call for you.” Seraphine. My throat closed. This wasn’t my phone. Another tap. “Do you think it’s okay if she starts calling you Dad now?” A man replied, his voice thick with happiness I hadn’t heard in years. “I’ll tuck Elara in and head over soon.” Him. I remembered the night before everything fell apart. I’d woken thirsty and gone looking for him, assuming he was still buried in paperwork. He wasn’t working at all. He was with her. Our wedding night replayed in my head. I had whispered, half-joking, “If you ever fall out of love with me, just take the ring back. I’ll disappear from your life.” He’d kissed my temple and promised, “If I ever hurt you, I deserve to die forgotten.” Footsteps approached from the kitchen. I slid the phone back exactly where I’d found it. Julian came in carrying a bowl, sitting close enough that I could feel warmth radiating from him. “Careful, it’s hot,” he said, guiding the spoon like I was something precious. His phone rang. He paused, then picked up. “Yes?” His voice shifted instantly. “Sir, the paperwork’s ready. We just need your signature,” came a familiar woman’s voice. Not paperwork. An invitation. I heard a baby cry faintly in the background. His tone softened completely. “I’m coming now.” He placed the bowl in my hands. “Something urgent came up. Eat while it’s warm.” I forced a small smile. “Go. I’ll manage.” He studied me, puzzled that I wasn’t clinging to him. Then the pull of the child won. “You’re alright,” he said, patting my head before leaving. When the door closed, I picked up my own phone. I recorded a message to Rowan, the assistant who had kept my gallery alive for years. “Find me a cornea donor. Also, reserve me the earliest flight out the day after tomorrow.” My eyes had once been my livelihood—every hue, every glimmer of light passing through them before it reached canvas. Julian had taken them for his lover. So I would take everything back. But first, I needed to see. I used to believe in beauty. In love. In color. I believed in Julian, the way I believed in my art. Paint fades. So does devotion. He had chosen. Now I would too. --- Light seeped faintly through my closed lids when I woke again. The silence told me it was late. I tried to make it to the bathroom alone, counting each step. My knee smashed into a table leg and I went down hard, biting back a cry. The door flew open. “Elara! What are you doing?” Julian rushed over. “Why didn’t you wait? I was only gone a moment.” A lie. He didn’t smell like the outside world. “I’m okay,” I said calmly. “Go back to whatever mattered more.” His hand patted my hair. “Nothing is more important than you.” Those words once meant everything. Now they meant nothing. He helped me up and escorted me to the bathroom like a jailer. Afterward he asked, “What do you want for lunch? I’ll make anything.” “I want to go home.” He hesitated. “But your condition—” “I don’t know this place. At home I won’t keep crashing into furniture.” “Fine,” he agreed. Back at the villa, I was already planning my escape when he spoke again. “A friend of mine lost his wife during childbirth. He was in an accident yesterday… he didn’t survive. He asked me to take care of his baby.” I sipped water, masking the disgust. “Bring her here tomorrow.” He hugged me. “That’s why I love you. You’re always so kind.” He cooked dinner. I barely ate. “You hardly touched it,” he said. “Want me to make something else?” “I’m full.” He was about to push when the doorbell rang.

Julian went to answer the door. The instant I heard the lock turn, every muscle in my body went rigid. A familiar scent floated into the room — the same perfume I’d worn for years. His voice dropped low. “You weren’t supposed to come until tomorrow morning. Where’s the baby?” “With the nanny,” Seraphine replied quietly. “She’s safe. I just… I can’t spend another night in that hospital. It’s freezing there. And I hate sleeping without you.” Her voice quivered. “Being away from you even a few hours is torture.” Julian softened immediately. “Hey, stop that. You just had stitches. You shouldn’t cry, it’s bad for you.” I stayed motionless on the couch, fingers grazing the faded paint mark on my old sweatpants, pretending I was mentally wandering through some unfinished painting. “Julian,” I called loudly, deliberately. “Who’s there?” So this was a performance now. Fine. I’d play along. He led her inside a moment later. His hand closed over mine — warm, heavy, possessive. “This is Seraphine,” he said. “I hired her to help out around the house. And with the baby.” Their baby. “She used to work for me as my secretary,” he added smoothly. “Got married last year, had a child, and now she’s back.” Then, like he was doing me a favor, “She’s had some trouble with her vision too, so she understands what you’re dealing with. Until she recovers, she’ll help you get around.” My vision. The word scraped raw. Seraphine stepped closer. “It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Whitmore. I’ll be managing everything from now on. You… and the baby.” The way she lingered on that last word wasn’t subtle. It was a challenge. I inclined my head. “Alright. Thank you.” Nothing for her to latch onto. That clearly irritated her, because seconds later I heard the damp sound of a kiss. Then another. The soft rustle of clothes shifting. The couch creaked beneath them. My stomach rolled. I remembered how Julian used to pull me down onto that same sofa, how the fabric would rub my skin raw. One night we’d even stayed up sewing a cover together, laughing about how ugly it was. I’d thought that meant something. Without a word, I stood and started upstairs. My foot caught on the second step and I stumbled into the bedroom, collapsing onto the floor. I curled inward, hands pressed against my abdomen as nausea surged. I gagged, violently. Footsteps rushed in. Julian filled the doorway. “Elara, what’s wrong?” He touched my shoulder and the sickness doubled. Then Seraphine’s voice sliced in, sharp with interest. “Wait… are you pregnant? I thought she had the implant.” Julian froze. “Elara,” he said slowly, “did you get your period this month?” I shook my head. “It’s always on time,” I whispered. “I’m probably just stressed.” He stepped away from me as though I were dangerous. “That shouldn’t be possible. I was careful. The doctor said—” He cut himself off, then straightened. “We’re going for tests tonight. If you are pregnant, we’ll deal with it before it becomes an issue.” Seraphine let out a soft, delighted laugh. So he could ruin me for her child — but mine wasn’t allowed to exist. “Why would it be an issue?” I asked quietly. He hesitated. “Because I promised someone I wouldn’t have children of my own until her daughter grows up.” That was his excuse. “I’m not pregnant,” I said flatly. “If you’re that obsessed, buy a test. I’m going to sleep. Both of you, leave.” I heard them go. I sank into the bed like I weighed a thousand pounds. I was exhausted. And for the first time in days, my dreams were empty. --- Morning light filtered through the curtains when I woke. My stomach growled, so I headed toward the kitchen. As I passed the guest room, I stopped cold. Muted moans. A man’s murmur. A woman laughing breathlessly. In broad daylight. My hunger vanished. I turned back to my room, poured a glass of cold water, and forced it down, trying to keep the sickness from rising again. I didn’t care what they were doing. I just needed Julian gone so I could leave this house unseen. The bedroom door opened suddenly. I stiffened. “Who is it?” Seraphine’s voice floated in, sickly sweet. “It’s just me.” My fingers tightened around the glass. “What do you want?” She walked in as if she owned the place. “Julian changed already. He’s heading to the hospital to bring the baby home. I thought I’d check on you.” Her tone said the opposite. She wasn’t here to help. She was here to enjoy this. “I don’t need anything,” I said, turning away. “You can go.” She ignored me, stepped closer, and seized my wrist. Her nails dug into my skin. “Want to know what we were doing on your sofa last night?” she whispered. “Or what just happened in the guest room?” Her smile was sharp. “Julian says he likes women who take chances — not fragile little birds trapped in gilded cages.” She leaned closer, her breath cold against my ear. “And the baby he’s bringing home? She’s mine. Congratulations. You’re going to raise my child now.”

Seraphine’s lips curved as she leaned closer. “You know, I was never truly blind,” she confessed lightly. “I paid the doctor to fake the diagnosis. I wanted to see just how far Julian would go for me.” She brushed two fingers along my cheek, mockingly gentle. “Turns out he’d go anywhere. Your corneas weren’t taken because I needed them… they were taken because I wanted proof. And he handed them over without hesitation.” Everything went quiet except the blood rushing through my ears. “So now I understand,” she added softly. “You were just a promise he once made. I’m the one he chose to keep.” A laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it. She stiffened. “What are you laughing at? Have you finally lost it?” I let the smile die slowly and angled my head toward her. “Seraphine, do you really believe you’ve won?” Her breath faltered. “What exactly are you trying to say?” I stepped closer until my fingertips brushed her cheek, lingering there, my expression razor-edged. “Enjoy your borrowed sight,” I murmured. “Because one day, these same eyes will watch your world collapse.” I had been a Carter long before I was ever Mrs. Whitmore. And Carters don’t crumble just because someone tries to erase them. Her hand jerked. Glass shattered against the floor, followed by her shrill cry. Julian stormed upstairs. “What just happened here?” Seraphine collapsed into him like she might faint. “It’s nothing,” she sobbed. “I brought her some tea, but she threw it in anger. Please don’t be upset with her, Mr. Whitmore. She isn’t well.” She didn’t repeat a single word I’d said. She didn’t need to. She painted herself the victim perfectly. Julian turned to her immediately. “Your eyes are still healing, Seraphine. Don’t cry.” Then his voice cut toward me, sharp as a blade. “Elara, she came all this way just to help you. She didn’t cause your blindness, so stop venting your anger on her. This behavior is absurd.” I laughed bitterly. “Julian, you really don’t know who destroyed me?” His expression flickered, uncertainty bleeding through his mask. When I took a step forward, he struck me without warning. The impact snapped my head to the side. For a heartbeat, the room was dead silent. “I—I didn’t mean to,” he stammered, his voice shaking. He cupped my face, leaned down— “Don’t touch me,” I whispered hoarsely, pushing him away. Seraphine’s voice oozed sweetness. “Julian, come on. Let’s give her space.” They headed for the door, but just before leaving I heard her giggle, soft and poisonous. “Not here,” she teased. “Your wife might hear.” Julian murmured back, “She’s blind. She won’t notice anything. Come on—three times before we go pick up our daughter.” The door closed behind them, their laughter fading down the hall. I stood there, cheek throbbing, heart heavier than it had ever been. Let them celebrate. Their happiness would rot soon enough. I lifted my phone. “Rowan, do you have the ticket?” “All confirmed,” he replied gently. “I’m already at the airport. I’ll handle everything when you arrive.” “Good. Tell the driver to bring the divorce papers. And don’t tell anyone where I’m going.” “Understood.” The driver arrived shortly after. I signed the documents, slipped my ring into the envelope, wedged it into the villa doorframe, and packed only my mother’s belongings. At the terminal, Rowan was waiting. He took my bag and guided me through the crowds with practiced ease. Halfway through security, my phone rang. I answered by accident. “Elara,” Julian said, cheerful, “I picked up the baby and I’m heading back. Want me to grab anything for you?” Silence. “I know today was rough,” he added quickly. “Let me make it up to—” “I want a sunflower,” I interrupted. It wasn’t about the flower. I just needed him distracted. “Alright,” he said immediately. “I’ll find one.” I ended the call and handed my phone to Rowan. “Erase his contact. Block him. Then switch to airplane mode.” The plane surged into the sky, and for the first time in months, I felt the tightness in my chest loosen. Goodbye, Julian. And you won’t enjoy what I’m about to do next.

Julian'S POV The villa gates swung open as I pulled in. Seraphine sat beside me, baby in her arms, smiling like she had just won the lottery. The kid was asleep, tiny fists curled against her chest. I had one arm full of sunflowers for Elara, the other cradling two bouquets of red roses for Seraphine. “You bought too many,” Seraphine said in that soft, almost shy voice she liked to use with me. “Elara might think you are overcompensating.” “She asked for a sunflower,” I said. “She’ll get sunflowers. You get the roses. Fair is fair.” Seraphine’s cheeks flushed. “You’re spoiling me again. You know I don’t need flowers to be happy. Just… you.” I pushed the door open and stepped into the villa. Quiet. Too quiet. “Elara?” I called out, expecting her to appear from the kitchen or the stairs. No answer. Seraphine followed me in, rocking the baby. “Maybe she’s sleeping?” “She wouldn’t sleep this early.” I walked toward the living room and stopped dead. The front door was ajar. On the frame sat an envelope. I set the flowers down on the console and picked it up. “Throw this away,” I said, holding it out to the maid. She took it, but her hand froze. Her voice wavered. “Mr. Whitmore… it’s… it’s a divorce paper.” I turned. “What?” Seraphine stepped forward, curiosity written all over her face. “Let me see.” She slid the papers from the envelope, flipping through them slowly. Then that soft little smile curved her lips. “It’s real. All it needs is your signature.” “She’s bluffing,” I said flatly. “Trying to get a rise out of me.” Seraphine tilted her head, swaying the baby lightly. “Maybe… or maybe she is tired of all this. I mean, she’s been through a lot lately. She’s blind, Julian. Maybe she just wants… peace.” “She is not going anywhere without my say-so.” I pulled my phone from my pocket and hit her number. Straight to voicemail. I called again. Same thing. Blocked. I paced the living room, the marble under my shoes sharp and cold. “She has no right to leave without telling me. Without permission.” Seraphine lowered herself onto the sofa, bouncing the baby with that fake maternal glow. “Maybe she’s gone for good.” I shot her a look. “She’ll come back. She is nothing without me.” Seraphine’s smile was sweet, almost sympathetic. “Of course. I’m sure she will.” But for some reason, I saw something in her eyes. A glint. And for the first time, I felt a flicker of unease. -- The moment I stepped into my study, I pulled out my phone and called my head of security. “Track Elara’s phone. Now.” He didn’t waste time with questions. “Sir, her phone’s been off since morning.” I stopped pacing. “Off?” “Yes, sir. No signal.” I rubbed my jaw, already moving to my desk. “Fine. Then check every airport, every train station, every bus terminal within a hundred miles. I want every passenger manifest reviewed. Get me answers.” “Understood.” Seraphine walked in, cradling Isolde, her voice soft and sweet like she was some angel sent to bless me. “Julian… maybe we should let her go for a while? She’s probably upset, and she needs to heal.” I shot her a look. “Heal from what?” She gave a tiny shrug, adjusting Isolde in her arms. “Well… maybe she found out. About… us. About Isolde.” I leaned back in my chair, scoffing. “She doesn’t know. And even if she did, she wouldn’t last out there. She’s blind, Seraphine. No one’s going to help her. She has no job, no family worth mentioning, no money. Just a plain housewife. She’ll come back.” Seraphine lowered her gaze, swaying Isolde gently, “Still… I don’t know. She might surprise you.” I narrowed my eyes. “You think I can’t handle my own wife?” She lifted her head slowly, all big eyes and soft tone. “Of course not. You’re… you. I just mean, if she really wants to be gone, maybe forcing her back will only make her resent you more.” I didn’t respond. I wasn’t about to debate strategy with her. By nightfall, my men reported back with nothing. No sightings. No ticket purchases. No car rentals. No one at the station remembered seeing her. I sat in my study with the divorce papers in front of me, the house quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock. My fingers curled around the edge of the papers until they crumpled. She thinks she can walk away from me. It’s just a phase. She’ll come back. She always does. -- Elara'S POV The air in Italy feels different. Lighter. Cleaner. Or maybe it’s just because I finally left everything behind. Rowan keeps a hand on my elbow as we walk through the quiet hospital corridor. The sound of our footsteps echoes. My fingers are cold, but it’s not from the weather. We reach the reception desk. Papers slide across the counter. “Just sign here, Miss,” the nurse says. I take the pen.

My hand shakes, and I have to steady it with my other hand. I force my voice to be calm. “Where?” “Bottom right corner.” The ink scratches against the paper. My name. My consent. My choice. The doctor’s voice is warm, but firm. “The surgery will take a few hours. You will be under anesthesia. When you wake up, you’ll still have the bandages on for at least two days. Do you understand?” “Yes, Doctor,” I say, trying to sound braver than I feel. Rowan leans closer. “I’ll be here the whole time. You’ll be fine, Elara.” I nod. I have to be fine. They wheel me into the operating room. The air smells faintly of disinfectant. I hear the metallic clink of tools being arranged, the low hum of machines. A nurse touches my hand. “You’re safe,” she whispers. The anesthesia takes me quickly. When I wake, everything is muffled. My head feels heavy, and there’s a burning sensation under the bandages. My throat is dry. Rowan’s voice is the first thing I hear. “You’re awake. The surgery went well. Doctor said the donor cornea was perfect.” “It… hurts,” I whisper. “That’s normal. Just rest.” -- The next two days blur into pain and dizziness. Every time I move, the world tilts. But the thought of what’s ahead keeps me going. On the third day, the doctor unwraps the bandages. “All right, slowly open your eyes,” he says. It’s not instant clarity. First, there’s only brightness, then shapes, then the faint outline of a face. And then… Rowan. His smile is small but genuine. “Welcome back.” Something shifts inside me. No more tears for Julian. No more begging to be seen. That night, I sit at the desk in my hospital room, scribbling in my notebook. Ideas for my revenge take shape in rough sketches and short notes. Rowan knocks on the door. “Come in,” I say. He steps inside. “Grandfather’s been asking when you’ll come home.” My hand stills. Four years. Four years of excuses, all because I thought Julian’s comfort mattered more than my own family. I swallow. “He’s… okay?” “He’s waiting. And he’s proud of you, even now.” Pride. A word I haven’t heard in so long. Julian has no idea who I really am. He thinks I am just a plain housewife who paints for fun. He doesn’t know that once, I was a renowned painter. That my exhibitions sold out in hours. That I gave it all up to cook for him, clean for him, love him. I look at my hands. The same hands that once held brushes and created worlds. They itch now, like they’re remembering. I close my notebook and stand. “Rowan,” I say quietly, “we go home now. I’m ready to paint again.” -- The flight was long, but Rowan made sure no one paid us too much attention. No public greetings, no fanfare. Just two quiet passengers slipping through the VIP exit of El Prat Airport in Barcelona. As soon as we stepped into the arrival hall, Rowan leaned close. “Abuelo already sent a car. Security team’s outside.” I paused for a second, my hands tightening around my bag. Security. A car waiting for me. Those words used to be normal in my life, but now they felt almost… foreign. Julian never allowed anything like that. He always said, “It’s just for show. You’re not some princess. Stop acting entitled.” So I stopped expecting safety. We walked toward the private parking area. A sleek black sedan waited, flanked by two men in tailored suits. They inclined their heads when they saw me. “Bienvenida a casa, Señorita,” one of them said. The title hit harder than I expected. I nodded, forcing a small smile, then slid into the back seat. The drive to the estate was quiet, except for Rowan giving instructions in Spanish. My chest tightened when the gates came into view— tall wrought iron, the family crest in polished gold catching the late afternoon sun. The moment we rolled in, memories came flooding back: warm evenings on the terrace with the scent of bougainvillea, the salty breeze from the Mediterranean, my grandfather’s voice calling me mi pequeña. Inside, the staff lined up in the entry hall. Familiar faces lit up when they saw me. “Señorita,” the housekeeper whispered, her voice trembling. “Está en casa.” And then I saw him. My grandfather. White hair, still upright and proud despite his age. His eyes softened, but when they landed on my thin frame, his jaw tightened. “Elara.” He pulled me into his arms, holding me longer than I expected. When he stepped back, he studied me from head to toe. “You have lost weight. Your skin… too pale. Tell me, what did that man do to you?” I looked away, forcing a weak smile. “We just drifted apart, Abuelo. That’s all.” He frowned. “No me mientas. You think I do not know the look of a woman who has suffered?” I had no answer. My throat burned, but I swallowed the truth. Not tonight. That evening, after dinner, I wandered into my old art studio. The air smelled faintly of dust and turpentine. White sheets covered the easels and tables. I pulled one back and revealed an unfinished painting... the strokes rough, colors half-blended. My hands tingled just looking at it. I touched the edge of the canvas. Four years gone. Four years I gave up painting, gave up myself, so I could cook his meals and wait for him to come home— only for him to choose someone else. My fingers curled into fists. Not anymore.