"Are you really going to embarrass me in public over some cheap yarn?"
Inigo’s voice was a flat, irritated drawl. He didn't look at my pale, trembling frame.
"It’s a ratty old piece of yarn, Harriet," he sighed, crossing his arms. "Stop being so petty and hysterical."
"Petty?" The word tore from my throat, raw and jagged. "You murdered my baby! You drugged me, cut me open, and stole my daughter’s heart to save her bastard child!"
The boutique went dead silent.
The photographer froze, his camera lowering slowly.
The assistant dropped a leather leash. The ambient jazz music playing from the ceiling speakers suddenly felt suffocatingly loud.
"Harriet, please," Harriet cried out, her voice trembling just enough for the staff to witness her victimhood. "The doctors told us weeks ago! Your baby died in the womb. You’ve been in severe denial. We’ve been trying to get you psychiatric help, but you just keep making up these horrible, violent delusions!"
To seal her performance, Layla picked up the shredded ivory sweater from the counter. With a look of profound disgust, she tossed it into a soiled litter box in the corner of the display pen.
"You need to let go of this madness," she whispered.
The sight of my mother's last memory landing in filth snapped the final thread of my restraint. The numbness vanished, replaced by a blinding, white-hot fury.
I lunged forward, my hand raised to strike Layla's lying mouth.
I never reached her.
Inigo didn't just block me. He grabbed me by the collar of my coat, his grip twisting the fabric tight against my throat. His eyes were completely devoid of the man I had married.
They were the eyes of a monster who had finally grown tired of his prey.
"You want to act like a feral, crazy animal?" he hissed, his voice dropping so only I could hear. "Then I'll treat you like one."
Instead of pushing me to the floor, he dragged me backward. My shoes scraped uselessly against the polished hardwood.
He hauled me through the boutique’s rear stockroom, ignoring my gasps for air, and kicked open the heavy metal door leading out to the back alley.
With one brutal shove, he threw me outside.
I hit the wet, filthy asphalt hard.
A sharp, sickening tearing sound echoed in my ears. A blinding pain ripped through my abdomen. I gasped, curling into myself as my fresh surgical stitches tore completely open. Warm blood instantly soaked through my shirt, pooling rapidly against the cold, grimy pavement.
I lay there, gasping for air, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth.
The alley smelled of rot and damp concrete. Just a few yards away, a massive city garbage truck was slowly rolling down the narrow lane, its mechanical jaws loudly crushing and grinding refuse.
The heavy diesel engine roared, drowning out the sound of my ragged breathing.
Inigo stepped out onto the threshold. Layla appeared right behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and looking down at me with a twisted, victorious smirk.
I looked up at Inigo. A few days ago, this would have broken me. I would have reached out my bloody hand, sobbing, begging my husband to help me, begging him to take me home.
But I didn't cry. I just stared at him, absorbing the absolute, horrifying reality of what I meant to him.
Nothing. I was just a spare part they had finished using.
Inigo adjusted his cuffs, his face a mask of cold, aristocratic disgust. He looked at the idling garbage truck, then looked down at me bleeding in the dirt.
"Stay right there with the rest of the trash," Inigo said, his voice slicing through the roar of the truck's engine. "I'll have the psychiatric transport pick you up in an hour."
Inigo’s POV
I locked the heavy metal door, shutting out the stench of the alley and the pathetic sight of my wife bleeding on the asphalt.
"Finally," Layla sighed, wrapping her arms around my neck. "Is it over?"
"It’s over," I murmured, kissing her forehead.
Harriet was broken. Empty. By tomorrow, she would be locked in a padded cell, and her entire estate would legally default to my control.
We left through the front of the boutique, returning to our luxury penthouse. I slept better that night than I had in years. The exhausting burden of playing the devoted husband to a fragile, hysterical woman was finally lifted.
The next morning, the sunlight streaming into the dining room felt like a victory. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, sipping a freshly brewed espresso, looking out over the city that I now practically owned.
I pulled out my everyday phone and dialed Dr. Smith, the head of the private psychiatric facility on my payroll.
"Send your transport to the alley behind the boutique," I ordered, my voice smooth and detached. "Scoop her out of the trash. If she bled out, take her straight to the morgue. If she’s alive, sedate her and lock her in the secure ward. She’s completely lost her mind."
"Understood, Mr. Inigo," the doctor replied.
I ended the call, a satisfied smirk resting on my lips. It was almost too easy.
Then, my phone vibrated in my palm.
A text message flashed across the screen. It was sent from my secure, encrypted business line—the secondary phone I kept hidden in the inner pocket of my suit jacket.
I frowned, instinctively patting my breast pocket.
Empty.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I stared at the glowing screen, my blood instantly turning to ice as I read the message.
Thank you for the phone, Inigo.
Underneath the text was a video link.
