The Good Wife

03

-PARISTON-

Amber walked beside me, her feet brushing against the carpet with the kind of softness that once made her invisible. Not anymore.

Now, I saw her.

Now, I had to.

She paused at the bedroom door, waiting for me to speak like a well-trained pet. Her brown eyes, wide, warm, and far too innocent, lifted to meet mine for a moment before falling again. That same look she used to give me when we were younger. Back when she thought the sun rose for me.

It used to be pathetic.

Still is.

Her hair, curling at the ends, clung to her collarbone. Her dress clung tighter. She'd always been petite, delicate in build, with round cheeks and lips too full for someone so quiet.

A pretty face, sure. But not the kind men remembered. Not the kind I remembered.

Not like Sloan.

Sloan was radiant. Blonde, bold, breathtaking. She could silence a room and walk into fire like it was her stage. Where Amber fades away, with her boring features.

I'd never looked at Amber twice back then. Even when Sloan mocked her for it.

I still remembered the first time Sloan laughed at her. She'd found the posters in Amber's childhood room—pictures of me from news articles, from university debate competitions, campaign flyers. All neatly taped to the wall.

"She's obsessed with you," Sloan had smirked, flipping through Amber's old diary. "Did you know that?"

I hadn't. I'd never really noticed Amber at all back then.

Girls like Amber always loved from a distance. Harmless crushes. Quiet fantasies. The kind that died in silence.

And now?

Now she was in my bed.

My wife.

The irony made me sick.

I stepped into the room and tossed my watch onto the dresser.

"Go to sleep," I said without looking at her. "I have work."

She didn't argue. Of course she didn't. I left her standing there and walked into my study, shutting the door behind me.

The air in here still smelled faintly of Sloan's perfume. That citrus-rose mix she used to wear. Every inch of this house had her fingerprints. Every inch of my life, too.

I collapsed into the chair behind my desk, staring at the papers I hadn't touched in days. Reports. Event planning. Fundraising letters.

Now, all I had was silence and a walking reminder of everything I lost.

Amber. That devious little cunt.

Her hands were on the wheel that night. Her judgment that put them in that car. She survived. They didn't.

And now I was expected to... what?

Build a new life with her?

Have a child with her?

Love her?

I closed my eyes, but Ayvah's barely recognizable face flashed in my mind. I saw Sloan's blonde hair dripping blood. I saw twisted metal, broken glass, a crushed car seat. I saw Amber being rescued—crying, shaking, breathing.

My jaw clenched. My nails dug into the leather armrest.

She should've died with them.

A sharp knock pulled me out of the spiral. My father didn't wait for permission to enter.

"Still brooding?"

"I'm working," I muttered.

"Doesn't look like it." He shut the door behind him. "We have to talk about the girl."

"She's been here a month and still no news. The media's asking questions. People are asking questions."

"It's not like I can command her uterus," I snapped, the anger finally bubbling.

He looked down at me like I was a failure wrapped in silk.

"She took your family," he said, with no mercy whatsoever. "The least she can do is give you another."

I stood up abruptly, fury rising in my throat. "You think I don't know what she cost me?"

"I think you're too soft," he hissed. "You're walking around this house like a ghost. Meanwhile, our campaign is bleeding support. People want a man who looks stable, grounded. Someone they can trust to lead. Not a broken widower. Not a man still clinging to ghosts."

"I'm grieving!"

"You don't have time to grieve," he spat. "Sloan was valuable. Smart. She made you look good. And that child—your child—was the cornerstone of your image. Now both are gone, and you're married to the woman who buried them. If you don't put a child in her before election season starts, this family loses everything."

I wanted to hit something. Break something. Burn it all.

But instead, I straightened my jacket and bit down the bile rising in my throat.

"I'll handle it," I said quietly.

"You better," he growled. "Because if you don't fix this... she's not the only one who'll be disposable."

And then he walked out, leaving me and my precious misery alone.