His face went raw with anger. His hand came down like a hammer, smacking my mouth before I could turn away. My head snapped; the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth again.
He walked off without another syllable. Didn’t check to see if I lived. Didn’t ask if I’d make it through the night.
I folded into myself on the cold floor, trembling, bleeding, barely held together by stitches — and still alive. Just. For the moment.
---
Seven days. A whole week.
No calls. No messages. Not a single assistant marching in with an awkward apology and wilted flowers.
Nathan never showed up.
I recovered in quiet. Ate thin broth alone. Redressed my wounds with hands that trembled. Lay awake at night, hearing my pulse thump against the hospital’s walls while his life continued like I’d vanished.
I wasn’t shocked anymore — I was finished.
On day seven I signed myself out, slid on dark glasses, and walked through the lobby as if I’d already buried what mattered most.
A car waited outside — not his driver, but mine.
The apartment felt wrong when I returned: too empty, the hush of furniture holding its breath.
I limped across the marble, the ache in my belly sharp. The housekeeper gasped at my appearance, then tried to act like she hadn’t.
“Where is he?” I asked.
She fidgeted. “Mr. Wynn flew to Saint Barthélemy…with Miss Catrina.”
A smile broke across my face — wide, controlled, and bitter as smoke. “Naturally,” I said.
I went straight to the master suite, to the closet where the life we’d pretended we had lived still kept its place. I pulled out the rose-gold suitcase he bought me after our honeymoon and began packing the clothes that meant anything: evening gowns, a few prized jackets, a pair of stilettos sharp enough to be weapons.
Packing stole a little of the sting. I didn’t cry.
On the pillow I left the divorce documents — battered and torn but still valid. Beside them, one of my old calling cards. On the back I scrawled, dark and deliberate:
“Next time we meet, I won’t be the woman you shattered. I’ll be the one who buries you.”
I zipped the case, took a last sweep of the room we’d faked into a home, and walked away erect and unbowed. My body was healing — my mind was steel.
---
The airport was its usual circus: flashes, influencers, people chasing status. I wore black — designer, simple — sunglasses low, no makeup, no entourage. Just a carry-on and a plan.
Halfway through security my phone vibrated.
His name filled the screen.
I let it buzz twice before answering.
“While we’re away,” he said without greeting, his tone flat, “you’ll be moved to the other penthouse. I’m converting the main one for Catrina.”
I didn’t respond immediately. I let a half-smile play at my lips.
“Fine,” I said softly. “Have your domestic bliss.”
He hesitated. “So you accept?”
“Accept what?” I asked.
“My proposal. About us both—about the two wives.”
I laughed — not the practiced charity laugh, but something dark and hollow. “Yes,” I said. “I have decided.”
He brightened. “So you’ll stay?”
“No,” I answered. “I decided I’m going to bury you.”
I cut the call, tucked the phone away, and handed my boarding pass to the agent. No farewells. No turning back. Only the cold ember of a vow and a one-way ticket to what would be mine.
---
Nathan’S POV
Her hang-up made me smile. I poured scotch and laughed out loud — pleased and obstinate.
“Bury me?” I scoffed. “With those trembling legs and stitched-up stomach? Give me a break.”
She always made theatrical threats when she was at her most furious. She’d always come back; she always did. She needed me the way addicts need a hit.
I finished the drink, thumbed speed dial, and called the house. “Rosa,” I said, “don’t feed her for two days. Just water.”
There was a pause. “Sir?”
“Make her earn her meals — only when she admits she was wrong and says sorry to Catrina for shoving her down those stairs.”
Rosa’s voice was barely audible. “...Sir? Miss Amara already left.”
The words hit like a punch to the chest. “What are you talking about?”
Rosa swallowed hard. “She left, sir. Packed her things and caught a flight two hours ago. Miss Amara’s gone.”
