002: Wife’s Quarter
1013 Words
Okay.
Let me start this off by saying—I didn’t agree to anything.
No verbal yes, no written consent, not even a polite nod.
All I did was follow the fancy suited man—who I'm 92% sure is part-time assassin—into a black luxury van because, well…
I needed answers.
And because, let’s be honest, curiosity is my toxic trait.
Now here I am. At the grand gates of the Mathially Estate.
You know those palaces you see in period dramas with 27 fountains and a driveway longer than my entire career? Yeah.
That.
But worse.
Because this wasn’t just some ultra-rich stranger’s mansion.
This was apparently my husband’s house.
“Husband,” I mumble, glaring at the ring that magically appeared on my finger the second I sat on the sofa.
He planned this. Demetrecov freaking Mathially planned everything.
“Welcome to the estate, Mrs. Mathially.”
“Can we not?” I mutter, stepping out. “Just call me Hyacinth. Or, better yet, Victim #1.”
The air is crisp. Expensive. Like bottled confidence and old money. The main doors open automatically as if the house is sighing at my arrival.
I’m not even in yet and I can feel it judging my off-brand sneakers.
Inside? Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. An actual suit of armor standing at the hallway.
I look at it and whisper, “Mood.”
The man—I should really start asking for his name—gestures for me to follow. “This way, madam. The CEO’s quarters have been locked as per his instruction. You’ll be staying in the wife’s wing.”
“Wait, wait, wait—wing? Like… a whole wing?”
“Of course.” He sounds like I just asked if rain was wet.
They walk me past rooms I could never afford to clean, and through hallways that feel too long for just walking.
A butler nods.
A maid bows.
Someone offers me imported peach water.
I decline. My stomach’s too busy flipping to hydrate.
The “wife’s quarters” is… well. It’s stunning.
A canopy bed the size of my apartment. Cream walls. Velvet curtains. A walk-in closet I could hold Zumba classes in.
And—oh my gosh—a bath tub that looks like it could baptize an entire church choir.
I stand there, overwhelmed.
And then I say the only thing I can say…
“So this is what accidental wife life looks like.”
I sit on the bed.
It’s soft.
Ridiculously so.
And the minute I do, memories hit me again. His smirk. That low voice whispering, “You're not walking tomorrow, babe.” My hand trembling as I signed—whatever that paper was.
Ugh. i***t. How could I have been so—
Knock knock.
I jolt. The butler pokes his head in.
“Forgive the intrusion, madam, but the CEO’s medical assistant is ready to update you on his condition. He’s in the East Lounge.”
“Oh joy,” I mutter, standing. “Can’t wait to hear more about my fake husband’s real coma.”
| East Lounge |
It’s less of a “lounge” and more of a luxury airport lounge meets royalty den. Gold-framed portraits line the walls. And I swear one of them is staring into my soul.
A petite woman with a clipboard stands as I enter.
She’s maybe the same as me, sharp features, tailored scrubs. Doesn’t smile the type of employee. But when I searched for eye contact, I held back with her bloodshot eye.
As if she’d been longing for someone…
And I felt terrible.
“Mrs. Mathially.” she scoffed, regaining her posture.
“Hyacinth. Just Hyacinth.”
“You’re well.”
“I am well aware of that…”
She nods, doesn’t drop the aura of respect.
“We’ve moved Mr. Mathially to the estate’s medical suite. For privacy and security.”
“Of course you have,” I say, plopping on a tufted chair.
She continues. “He’s stable. Vitals steady. But brain activity suggests he’s… in between.”
“In between?” I raise a brow. “Like—haunted mansion ghost in between?”
She actually smiles. A bit. “It means he’s likely aware of some things. Unresponsive physically, but... reactive internally.”
Okay. Great.
So the man I drunkenly married might be semi-aware I’m now living in his mansion and pacing in his wife’s slippers.
“Is there anything he needs?” I ask, because I’m apparently a responsible spouse now. “Food? Air? A playlist?”
She tilts her head. “He requested—before the coma, of course—that you read to him daily.”
I blink. “Read what?”
“He left a shelf of books labeled ‘For Wife Use Only.’”
I frown. “That sounds either super sweet or super shady.”
“They’re mostly legal documents and business forecasts.”
I burst out laughing. “Of course they are.”
Later That Night…
You ever sit in a bathtub bigger than your self-esteem and questioned every life choice that brought you here?
Yeah. Me too.
Warm water.
Essential oils.
Romantic lighting.
And I’m still thinking about him.
Dark. What kind of name is Dark anyway? Was Broody McCEO taken?
I reach for one of the “Wife Use” books from a silver tray. Flip it open. Instead of boring stock options, a folded note drops out.
In neat, confident handwriting…
"You didn’t read the fine print, did you?
P.S. I like peaches. You smelled like peaches."
I stare at the note.
Then scream into a towel.
HE’S FAKING IT.
3rd Person POV
Meanwhile, in the secret room behind the mirror
Dark smirks as he watches her on the screen, towel over her face.
“She’s still loud,” he says, sipping peach tea. “Still perfect.”
His assistant looks nervous. “Sir, you sure she won’t find the cameras?”
Dark grins. “If she does, she’ll yell. And I miss that sound.”
- Writer
