Chapter Two - A Dead Wife
1081 Words
“Wait, Fiona. Are you telling me you still don’t remember the guy I told you about three years ago?”
Sally’s voice was tight with disbelief as she lay sprawled across her bed, phone pressed to her ear. The silence on the other end dragged for a beat, interrupted only by the sound of Fiona’s chewing.
“I’m sorry,” Fiona said finally. “I remember you crying. I remember you cursing out the entire male population. But actual names? Nope.”
Sally sat up, her voice rising with frustration. “It was Dominic Harvey.”
That got Fiona’s attention. “Wait. What? The Dominic Harvey? As in Harvey Enterprise? Cold, broody, black suits, bad reputation, devilishly gorgeous?”
“Yes,” Sally said flatly. “That Dominic Harvey.”
A pause. Then a loud exhale. “Oh my God. Babe. Now you have to tell me exactly what happened.”
Sally leaned back, pressing the phone between her shoulder and cheek as her fingers curled around the edge of her duvet. She stared at the ceiling as the memory, unwelcome and vivid, unfolded like it had been waiting all these years to be remembered.
THREE YEARS AGO
The gala was an opulent nightmare.
She hadn’t wanted to go.
Her father had died only two days before. She hadn’t even gotten to see his body. One moment he was breathing, and the next… a call from the hospital. A heart attack. Sudden. Cruel.
But before she could grieve, her mother had looked her squarely in the eye and said, “We have a gala to attend. The Thompsons must show face.”
Sally had choked on her disbelief. “A gala? Mom, dad's dead. I haven’t even—”
“And we will mourn. Later. Privately,” Madeline had interrupted, already selecting a dress. “But for now, we survive.”
And so Sally had gone. With swollen eyes hidden beneath glittering eyeshadow. Her movements stiff. Her smile nonexistent.
She started drinking the moment they arrived.
Champagne. Then wine. Then vodka.
The drinks dulled the sharp edges of reality—if only for a little while.
It was halfway through the evening when Don Harvey took the stage. Regal in a tailored tux, his voice sliced through the gentle clinks of glassware as he raised his own.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said with a smile, “tonight, we honor not only a tradition of excellence—but the future of it.”
The room quieted. All eyes turned toward the spotlight.
“I present to you the man who will carry forward the Harvey legacy. My son—Dominic Harvey.”
And then he appeared.
Dominic walked to his father's side like he owned the air around him. Tall, sculpted, dressed in a black suit that matched the soulless gleam in his eyes. Power radiated off him like heat.
Sally had rolled her eyes and turned away, whispering to the bartender, “Another, please.”
A few minutes later, she was weaving back through the crowd with a half-full glass of wine when it happened.
She hadn’t seen him. Not until the bump.
Someone’s shoulder slammed into hers, hard. Her heel twisted. The wine sloshed upward, dark red cascading down the front of her champagne-colored dress. And then—she fell.
Gasps rose around her like a wave.
Her palms scraped the floor as she pushed herself up quickly, struggling to regain her balance. And then she looked up.
Dominic Harvey.
He stood before her. Unapologetic. Still expressionless. Still cold.
His lip curled into a smirk—lazy, condescending. “Really? At a gala? Couldn’t wait to hit the pub before you got drunk?”
Sally blinked, stunned.
“Seriously? You're the one who hit me.” she muttered, heat rising in her cheeks.
He looked her up and down, disgust flickering in his eyes. “Stop throwing blames. Next time watch where you're going, dummy.”
And then he walked past her like she was invisible.
Gasps followed him. One voice whispered, “That’s Sally Thompson. Her dad just died.”
Her knees gave out again, but she caught herself, stumbled to the bathroom, and locked herself inside.
Sally had cried in the women’s bathroom that night until her mascara ran into her mouth.
PRESENT DAY
Fiona’s voice pulled her back to reality. “Okay, that’s… that’s horrible. I knew it was bad, but I didn’t realize he was the guy.”
Sally adjusted the phone against her ear, swallowing down a knot in her throat. “And now my mother wants me to marry him. Like none of that ever happened.”
Fiona let out a scoff. “Please tell me you’ve already set something on fire.”
“Not yet,” Sally muttered.
There was a pause. Then, Fiona’s voice came back, thoughtful. “Wait. Wasn’t he married?”
Sally blinked. “What’re you talking about?”
“I swear he was. Yeah, I remember. It was all over the net when his wife died. There was some big media thing around it. Photos of them together. Her name was—Maria? Martha?”
Sally’s heart skipped. “His wife died?”
“I’m pretty sure. Look it up,” Fiona said, her tone curious.
Sally got up and went straight to her study table, opened her laptop and began typing fast.
There was silence.
Then, “Here. Martha Harvey. Died two years ago.”
“Yup. That’s the one.” Fiona confirmed. “She was a gorgeous woman too.
Sally scrolled further. “It says here… she passed away suddenly.”
“Suddenly? What does that even mean? Car accident? Illness?”
Sally’s brow furrowed. “No… it’s vague. No real details. No medical explanation.”
“Wait, that’s weird,” Fiona said, her voice sharp now.
Sally clicked on another article. Her eyes widened.
“Fiona…”
“Yeah?”
“There’s no cause of death.”
“What?”
“Listen to this,” Sally read aloud, voice trembling. “‘The investigation into Martha Harvey’s death has been officially closed. Cause: Undetermined. No further public statements will be made.’”
“Okay, girl. That’s… that’s shady as hell.”
Sally’s fingers hovered over the trackpad. Her mouth had gone dry. “How does someone that rich, that young, just… die? And they don’t know why?”
Fiona was quiet for a beat. “Unless someone doesn’t want them to know.”
- Writer
