THE NARCISSIST'S WIFE

CHAPTER 3: THE NARCISSIST INSIDE MY HEAD

Back in the kitchen, Kevin’s hands moved automatically. The scent of sizzling onions wrapped around him, pulling him out of the memories. From upstairs, Lydia’s voice drifted down, carrying the melody of their wedding song. Kevin paused, a tender smile tugging at his lips as the reflections of that day, just a year past, wrapped around him.

“How could she have changed so much?” he wondered, drizzling her preferred barbecue sauce in a slow curve across the plate. Then came the voice, cold, insistent, echoing through his mind: “You’re not in control anymore. She has everything she needs. Remember? She said she could see without you.”

“Food is ready,”

“Coming in a moment.”

He sat fork in hand, but his appetite had vanished. Maybe it was because of the memories or the fight they had earlier. He couldn’t quite tell.

That night felt colder than usual. Lydia lay peacefully beside her husband; eyes shut tight, elegance wrapped around her like a gown. Her face was smooth, and at the corner of her lips lingered a faint, knowing smile.

“Perhaps it’s from that talk with Benson,” Kevin thought, turning away , the lines of strains carved deep into his face. “Let her enjoy it. She wouldn’t even know who she is without me.”

Sleep didn’t come. He lay in the dark, eyes fixed on the faint line of moonlight across the ceiling. Lydia’s breathing was slow, steady, as if she had nothing to trouble her.

“She can sleep because I’ve made her life easy,” he told himself. ” Everything she is, everything she has, it’s because of me.” The thought warmed him for a moment until another one slid in, ” But people forget. Maybe Benson planted ideas in her head, but we shall see. ”

He shifted onto his back, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. “ She won't find better than me. She knows it. And if she doesn’t, “his lips curled faintly in the dark,” I'll remind her. ”

At first light, Lydia rose at dawn and buised herself in the kitchen. The quiet hum of morning wrapped around her as she worked, hands moving with practiced ease. The rest had left her lighthearted, and a soft glow of joy lingered on her face as she prepared breakfast for her husband.

Kevin stirred awake, the rich aroma from the kitchen curling through the air, coaxing him gently ou of sleep.

“She thinks making me breakfast is love? No—it's duty. And she better not forget that.” The voice in his head roared, sharp and unforgiving, “Yes, this is where she belongs…right here, serving me.”

He rose from the bed with deliberate calm, dressing in heavy silence. The aroma of breakfast seeped deeper into the room as he buttoned his shirt, yet not once did his eyes stray towards the kitchen, nor his lips form her name. The clatter of dishes, the faint melody of humming—gentle, almost pleading—drifted through the house like an invitation he refused to accept. He pulled his coat from the closet, every sleeve and collar lined with his usual precision, and slipped it on. Case in hand, he descended the stairs where the table was already laid, Lydia’s quiet care evident in every detail. He gave it a single glance—no more than a passing flicker of his eyes—before turning away. Without a word, he stepped through the door and closed it behind him, the firm click echoing louder than any farewell.

Lydia froze mid-motion, the wooden spoon suspended in her hands as though the world itself had paused. A faint frown tugged at her brow. Her lips parted, the word slipping out in trembling whispered, “What did I do wrong?”

With trembling hands, Lydia began to clear the plates she had set so carefully, each one a quiet symbol of the love she had poured into the morning. The aroma that once promised warmth now clung to the kitchen like a cruel reminder, filling the air with emptiness instead of comfort. She stacked the dishes in silence, every movement slower, heavier, as though the weight of her heart had seeped into her body.

Tears brimmed her eyes as she turned towards the stairs. Halfway up, her strength faltered. A tide of emotion rose within her—hurt and the sharp sting of rejection all crashing at once. She pressed her back against the wall, struggling to steady her breath, her steps faltering beneath the heaviness in her chest. At last, her knees gave way, and she sank onto the stairs, the surrounding silence broken only by the quiet sound of her trembling sobs.

She buried her face in her hands, shoulders quaking beneath the weight of sorrow. The home she had always dreamed would be filled with love and laughter now felt unbearably cold, every corner echoing with emptiness. The grief she had swallowed in silence finally spilled free, breaking through her fragile composure.

When she lifted her gaze, her eyes caught the wedding photo on the wall. In that single glance, memories rose unbidden, pulling her backwards through time. A familiar helplessness swept over her—the same hollow ache she had felt on that rainy night when kevin told her to abandon her work and remain at home.

She had been a braille teacher then, guiding tiny hands across raised dots, coaxing light into worlds where sight could not reach. The pay had been modest, almost insignificant, but the joy it gave her was immeasurable. To her, it was never just a job; it was her passion, her calling, her purpose. Each child she helped was a reminder that even in darkness, hope could be taught to read. Yet with a single command, he had stripped it from her—leaving her adrift in a silence she had never chosen, a sacrifice she bore only in the name of love.

******

Kevin buried himself in paperwork that da, drowning in paperwork and the endless ring of phone calls. The tension from morning lingered like a shadow at the back of his mind, but he shoved it down, forcing his focus onto numbers, signatures and contracts. At one point, his hand drifted to his phone, the urge to call Lydia tugging at him.

That’s when it came—soft at first, then relentlessly swelling.

“No. Absolutely not. Why should you call her?” the voice sneered. “This is her fault, not yours.”

He froze the device, suddenly heavy in his hand. The voice pressed harder, colder, now deliberate

“She needs reminding of her place. You are the head. You are the reason she has this life. Don’t forget that_ and don’t let her forget it either.”

A chill rippled through him, yet it carried no fear—only dark, curling satisfaction. Slowly he lowered the phone back onto the desk, a thin smile slicing across his face. The voice receded, but its echo lingered, saturating the silence of the office like smoke that refused to clear.

Hours slipped by unnoticed. When at last he looked up, the day had vanished. With mechanical precision, he straightened his desk—every pen aligned, every file squared, every detail restored to perfect order for tomorrow, just like he used to. His briefcase and coat waited where his secretary had placed them, beat and exact. Just the way he liked.

With a final, approving glance at the immaculate room, he stepped out. Yet that evening, instead of gliding down in the elevator as he always did, he chose the stairs. His footsteps rang against the bare concrete walls, each one slower than the last, almost hesitant, as though something unseen weighed them down. The echo followed him all the way to the parking lot where his car waited in stillness, patient and silent.

A part of him longed to rush home; to the woman he once called his love, yet the other part was stirred restlessly by a weight he couldn’t shake. With a quiet sigh, he slipped into the driver’s seat, the leather cool beneath his palm. The engine roared to life, a low humming filling the silence, and he fastened his seat belt with deliberate calm. Without another thought, he pulled out of the lot and drove off.

By the time he pulled into the driveway, dusk had surrendered to night and the moon hung high, casting a silver glow across the quiet street. Shadow stretched long against the wall and the air carried the stillness of the world to rest. He stepped out, the gravel crunching softly beneath his shoes and reached for the flowers he had bought, an apology wrapped in fragile petals. With measured steps, he made his way to the house. The night was calm broken only by the distant bark of the neighbor’s dog, restless at every passing shadow.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, the familiar hush of the house filling his ears. He hung his coat on the stand and slipped off his shoes, gathering the flowers gently in his hand. As he turned towards the staircase, a shape caught his eye.

Lydia

She was stumped against the wall, her head resting at an awkward angle, fast asleep on the steps. For the first time in days, something inside him stirred, sympathy. His chest tightened as he took in the fragile curve of her frame, the way exhaustion had hollowed her cheeks, the weight she had quietly lost.

“She deserves better than this,” he thought, the truth pressing heavy on his heart.

He took a step closer, the flowers trembling in his grip, ready to wake her, maybe even hold her, but before the moment could take root, the voice slithered back into his mind.

“ Pathetic, “he hissed. “Look at her, crying herself to sleep on the stairs. That’s where she belongs. Down there on the ground like the rug.”

“Get up and get me some food,” his voice cracked through the quiet like a whip, echoing up the stairway. Lydia jolted awake, panic flashing across her face as she scrambled upright. In one sharp motion, he tossed the flowers onto the floor at her feet, their fragile petals scattering, then turned and strode upstairs without another glance.

Lydia sat frozen, her heart racing. She couldn’t tell how long she had slept, only that the hour had slipped away unnoticed, leaving her unprepared.

“I… I can warm up the breakfast I made this morning,” she stammered, her voice trembling. “I—I dozed off and haven’t made anything fresh yet.”

“It’s okay bunny, I understand,” his heart whispered, the words he longed to speak, but his lips never moved. Compassion hovered waiting to break through.

Then the voice surged, drowning out every trace of tenderness. Its venom wrapped around his mind, and before he could stop himself, the words spilled from his mouth, sharp as a blade.

“What kind of woman are you?” he snapped his voice, cold and merciless. ” Too lazy to even cook a meal for her husband. No wonder you can’t bear children. God would never trust a responsibility as sacred as motherhood to a woman as unkempt, as useless as you. ”