The Wife He Was Forbidden To Have

My mother was buried today. And a stranger at her funeral just told me she was murdered. He didn't offer condolences. He didn't bring flowers. He just stood by the cemetery gates in the rain, watching me, like he had been waiting for this moment for a very long time. Claire Vale had always believed that the dead left behind memories. She had never imagined that her mother would leave behind a secret powerful enough to destroy her life. The rain had not stopped since morning. Claire stood beside her mother's grave, holding a black umbrella in one hand and a single white rose in the other. Around her, people whispered their condolences before leaving the cemetery. Most of them had known Elise Vale for years, but none seemed to know what to say to the daughter who had just lost the only family she had. "I'm sorry, Claire." She looked up at the elderly woman standing beside her. Mrs. Bennett had lived three houses away for almost twenty years. She had brought food when Elise was sick and stayed with Claire during the final night at the hospital. "Thank you for coming," Claire replied. Mrs. Bennett squeezed her shoulder. "Your mother loved you more than anything. Don't ever forget that." Claire nodded because she did not trust herself to speak. Her mother had been dead for three days. Three days since Claire had held Elise's cold hand in a hospital room and begged her to open her eyes. Three days since the doctors had told her that there was nothing more they could do. And three days since Claire's life had become a place she no longer recognized. When the last guest left, she remained beside the grave. "I'm going home now, Mom," she whispered. "I don't know how to do this without you." The wind moved through the trees. Claire placed the white rose on the fresh earth and stepped back. That was when she noticed the man standing near the cemetery gates. He was tall, dressed in a perfectly fitted black suit, and completely untouched by the hurried movements of the people leaving around him. His dark hair was slightly wet from the rain, but he did not seem to care. He watched Claire with an expression she could not understand. He had not approached her during the funeral. He had not offered condolences. He had simply stood there, waiting. Claire tightened her grip on the umbrella. "Can I help you?" she called. The man began walking toward her. His shoes pressed against the wet path, each step slow and deliberate. When he stopped in front of her, Claire noticed a small scar near his right eyebrow and eyes so dark that they seemed almost black. "Claire Vale?" "Who wants to know?" "Ethan Blackwood." The name meant nothing to her, but the way he said it suggested that it should. "Have we met?" "No." "Then how do you know my name?" "Your mother knew my family." Claire stared at him. "My mother knew a lot of people. That doesn't explain why you're here." For the first time, something shifted in his expression. "You should be careful about the people who offer to help you over the next few days." She almost laughed. The warning was so unexpected that it sounded ridiculous. "My mother has just been buried, and you're telling me to be careful of people?" "Yes." "Do you have any idea how strange that sounds?" "I know exactly how it sounds." "Then explain yourself." Ethan glanced toward the grave. For a moment, his face lost its coldness. "Your mother was involved in something that never should have reached you." Claire felt the blood drain from her face. "What are you talking about?" "I can't explain everything here." "Then don't come to my mother's funeral and speak in riddles." She turned away, determined to leave before the stranger could upset her further. His next words stopped her. "Did she leave you a black diary?" Claire went completely still. The rain tapped against her umbrella. Slowly, she turned back toward him. "How do you know about that?" Ethan's expression hardened. "So she did." "Answer my question." "Because that diary may be the reason your mother is dead." The world seemed to tilt beneath Claire's feet. "No." She shook her head. "My mother was ill. The doctors said—" "Doctors can explain how someone died. They can't always explain why." "You're lying." "I hope I am." Claire wanted to slap him. She wanted to demand proof, call the police, and forget that this man had ever existed. Instead, she stood motionless, struggling to breathe. Her mother had kept a small black diary in a locked drawer beside her bed. Claire had found it the morning after Elise died. It had no title, no dates on the cover, and no keyhole. Only a tiny silver symbol had been pressed into the leather. She had not opened it. She had been too busy arranging the funeral, signing hospital papers, and trying to understand how she was supposed to live in a house that no longer felt like home. "Why would my mother have a diary connected to your family?" she asked. Ethan looked directly at her. "Because my family has spent ten years burying a truth that should have come out long ago." "Ten years?" Before he could answer, his phone vibrated. He glanced at the screen and rejected the call. Claire noticed the movement. "Someone important?" "Someone impatient." "Well, I don't have time for this." She started toward the gate. "Claire." She hated the way he said her name. Not because it sounded unpleasant, but because he spoke as if he already knew more about her than he had any right to know. She stopped without turning around. "Don't open that diary alone," he said. "Why should I listen to you?" "Because the people who want it will not ask nicely." She faced him again. "Are you threatening me?" "No." His voice dropped. "I'm telling you that someone else might." For several seconds, neither moved. Then Ethan stepped aside, allowing her to pass. Claire walked away without another word. She did not look back until she reached her car. He was still standing beside her mother's grave. And he was watching her leave. --- The house felt unbearably quiet. Claire placed her wet umbrella near the door and removed her coat. Her mother's slippers were still beside the sofa. A half-finished crossword puzzle lay on the coffee table, and a small blue cup sat near the kitchen sink. Ordinary things. Things that should not have become painful simply because the person who had used them was gone. Claire touched the back of the sofa and closed her eyes. She had promised herself that she would be strong. She would return to her work as an art restoration specialist, pay the bills, and learn to live with the silence. She would not let a stranger frighten her with stories about her mother. Especially not a stranger who looked like he belonged in a world where people gave orders instead of explanations. She went upstairs to Elise's bedroom. The room still carried the faint scent of lavender. Claire opened the curtains, allowing the grey daylight to enter, and began sorting through the things she would need to keep. She found old photographs, letters, and a small wooden box filled with jewellery. Then she noticed the drawer beside the bed. It was slightly open. Claire was certain she had closed it the previous morning. She pulled it out. The black diary was gone. For a moment, she could only stare at the empty space. Then she searched beneath the papers, inside the wardrobe, and behind the bedside table. She checked the other drawers, even though she knew she had not moved the diary. Nothing. Someone had entered her mother's bedroom and taken it. Her hands began to shake. She hurried downstairs and checked the front door. It was locked. The windows were closed. Nothing else seemed disturbed. Her phone rang. The sudden sound made her jump. An unknown number flashed across the screen. She answered cautiously. "Hello?" For several seconds, there was only silence. Then a man's voice spoke. "Did you enjoy meeting Ethan Blackwood?" Claire's stomach tightened. "Who is this?" "Someone who knows what your mother did." "Where is the diary?" A soft laugh came through the phone. "Your mother should have destroyed it years ago." "Tell me who you are!" "You have two choices, Claire. Forget the diary and live your life, or keep searching and discover why your mother was so afraid of the Blackwood family." The call ended. Claire lowered the phone slowly. She wanted to call the police, but what would she tell them? That a stranger had stolen a diary she had never shown anyone? That another stranger had warned her that her mother's death might not have been natural? She needed proof. And she knew exactly who might have answers. Ethan Blackwood. She opened her contacts and searched the number from the missed call he had received at the cemetery. She had noticed it on his screen when he rejected it, but she had not expected to remember it. Her fingers hovered over the keypad. Before she could dial, a message arrived from the unknown number. It contained a photograph. Claire opened it. The image showed her standing beside her mother's grave, speaking to Ethan. It had been taken from a distance, perhaps from behind one of the cemetery trees. Beneath the photograph were seven words. STAY AWAY FROM THE MAN IN BLACK. Claire stared at the screen. A second message appeared. HE WILL MAKE YOU HIS WIFE. Her breath caught. She read the words again, trying to make sense of them. Then someone knocked on the front door. Three slow knocks. Claire approached it carefully and looked through the peephole. Ethan Blackwood stood on the other side. This time, he was not alone. Two men waited behind him, both dressed in dark suits. Ethan held a folded piece of paper in his hand. Claire unlocked the door but kept the chain in place. "What are you doing here?" "We need to talk." "About my missing diary?" His eyes sharpened. "Someone took it?" "How did you know?" "Because I received a message ten minutes ago." He held the paper against the narrow opening. Claire could see only a few words written in black ink. THE DAUGHTER MUST PAY FOR HER MOTHER'S DEBT. Ethan looked at her, and the coldness in his eyes was gone. In its place was something far more troubling. Fear. "Claire," he said, "you need to listen to me very carefully." She tightened her hand around the door. "What?" "From this moment on, you are no longer dealing with a family secret." He paused. "You're dealing with people who will kill to keep it buried." And somewhere beyond the front windows, an engine started. Neither of them knew who was watching the house. But whoever it was had already made the first move.