THE WIFE HE TRIED TO BURY

CHAPTER 4

My fingers won’t stop shaking.

I dig them into the edge of the blanket just to feel something real.

The softness shouldn’t hurt, but it does. It feels like I don’t belong here in this warm room that smells faintly of lavender and someone else’s money.

Damien stands by the window like he owns the storm outside. Arms folded, back so straight. The lights behind him blur at the edges, like the rain wants to erase him too, but it can’t.

He’s too solid. Too calm. The opposite of me.

“An offer?” I manage to get the word out,after a long moment of silence,It scrapes up my throat like broken glass.

“I don’t want an offer.”

I want nothing. That’s all I want. Nothing at all.

He doesn’t move. Just watches me with that unreadable look, not soft, but not cruel either.

Just steady. Like he’s seen women like me before and knows exactly how far we can fall before we break for good.

I hate that. I hate that he can stand there and see all my cracks when I’ve spent years painting over them.

“I just want to disappear,” I whisper.

The words feel heavy, like stones on my tongue. “I just want to stop feeling like this. I want it to be over. I want to die and be free.”

His jaw shifts. Just once. Maybe pity, maybe anger,maybe nothing.

I can’t tell. He pushes off the window and crosses the room slow enough that I don’t flinch, even when he kneels right in front of me.

He rests his elbows on his knees so our eyes are level. I hate that too that he makes it so I can’t look away.

“You’re not in the state to hear me right now,” he says. His voice is too calm. Too gentle in a way that makes my bones ache.

“Right now, you need to eat, take something for that headache I know is splitting your head open. And sleep.”

I want to argue. I really do. But the fight in me is wet ashes useless.

My throat burns like I’ve swallowed fire. The words die inside me.

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink. His eyes soften a little just enough to make me hate him more for seeing me like this.

“When you’re ready to listen,” he says, voice low but steady, “I’ll tell you everything. But not tonight. Tonight you live. Tonight you eat. You rest. Tomorrow…” His eyes hold mine like a promise. “Tomorrow, we catch a flight.”

He stands and holds out his hand.

I just stare at it for a heartbeat broad palm, rough edges. Solid. Too solid for a ghost like me to hold onto.

I slip my hand into his. His skin is warm. My fingers barely curl around his. I hate how my breath shudders when he pulls me up.

Dinner tastes like nothing. I sit at a table that feels too big for two people. The city sprawls under us through the glass all that glitter and noise, pretending it didn’t watch me almost jump.

The food is pretty. Neat. Warm bread. Roast chicken that smells expensive. Vegetables arranged like they’re trying to convince me life is still orderly.

Damien doesn’t eat. He just sits there, sleeves rolled up, watching me like he’s willing me to lift the fork. So I do. One bite. Another. I chew, but my tongue is numb.

Halfway through, my hand stalls. The fork trembles. I want to drop it and tell him to go to hell. I want him to stop pretending he cares if I live or not.

“Eat, Eva,” he says. Calm. Firm enough to scrape my skin raw.

I chew again. Swallow. Another bite. The taste means nothing. But I do it. Because he doesn’t look away like it’s a challenge I can’t bear to lose.

When I’ve eaten enough to feel sick, he slides a little packet toward me. Two pills. A glass of water.

“For the headache.” His voice is so neutral it almost cuts deeper than any threat.

I stare at them, then at him. Part of me wonders if they’re poison. If I’d thank him for it. But he just leans back and waits.

I swallow them. The water tastes like metal. When my fork finally clatters against the plate, I realize my hands have stopped shaking just a little.

Damien’s hand is suddenly there, steadying my wrist. “Good,” he says. Like I’m a child who finally ate her peas. “Now sleep.”

A laugh claws at my chest but never makes it out. Too dry to escape.

He stands, comes around the table, pulls my chair back so gently it feels like mockery.

He doesn’t touch me after that just watches me walk back to the bedroom, my bare feet sinking into carpet I didn’t pay for.

At the door, I turn. The words taste bitter but I force them out anyway.

“Why?” It comes out small. Ugly. “Why are you doing this?”

He studies me like he’s memorizing this wreck so he can compare it to something else later. Something I can’t see yet.

“I told you,” he says. Calm as a gunshot in the dark. “I have an offer. You’ll hear it when you’re ready.”

The door clicks shut between us before I can break again. I stand there staring at nothing, my breath fogging up the glass when I press my forehead against it.

Tomorrow. A flight. An offer.

I don’t remember crawling into the bed. Just the feel of silk on my skin that doesn’t belong to me. Just the city lights flickering behind my eyes when they finally close.

I wake up to warm sheets and soft dawn light. For a heartbeat, I almost let myself believe I dreamed the ballroom, the bridge, the river waiting to swallow me whole.

Then a soft knock drags me back. Two women step in polite eyes, soft hands. They roll in my suitcases like they mean something. Like that house I’m no longer allowed to call mine wasn’t just a tomb I clung to out of habit.

“Mr. Carter asked us to pack your essentials, miss.”

Essentials. I wonder what counts as essential when you’ve already lost everything.

They help me dress soft wool trousers, a blouse that doesn’t smell like him. They pin my hair back from my face like they’re brushing away the last pieces of who I was.

The breakfast tray waits by the window. Damien is already there, reading something on his phone like he didn’t drag me off a bridge last night. He doesn’t look at me until I sit down.

“Eat,” he says. One word. I do. The coffee tastes bitter enough to remind me I’m still breathing.

When the plate’s empty, I set my fork down. I don’t thank him. I don’t owe him that yet.

“Where are we going?” My voice doesn’t c***k this time. Just flat. Hollowed out.

He looks up, eyes dark and quiet. He closes his phone, stands, buttons his jacket like he’s sealing off whatever plan he’s been carrying in his head.

“Far enough,” he says. His voice is so calm it almost sounds gentle. Almost.

“I’m taking you somewhere you can start over.”

A new life.

He doesn’t ask if I want it. He just turns away, and this time, I don’t fight the part of me that wants to follow.