The Crimson Thorn

Chapter Two: Beneath the Surface

Eleanor stood in the doorway, her hand still gripping the cold brass knob. William’s eyes gleamed in the low light of the living room, the amber whiskey in his glass catching the faint flicker of the fireplace. He was watching her with that slow, deliberate intensity she had learned to fear.

“You’re late,” he repeated, his voice calm but laced with something darker.

Her throat tightened. “I went for a drive.”

“A drive,” he echoed, leaning back into the leather armchair. His legs were crossed, one hand resting on the armrest while the other swirled the whiskey in his glass. “Alone?”

“Yes.”

William raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. He didn’t believe her. He rarely did anymore, though Eleanor couldn’t tell if it was because he distrusted her or if he simply enjoyed the power of making her squirm.

“I see,” he said, setting the glass down on the side table with a soft clink. “You seemed... distressed this morning. Thought I’d come home early to check on you.”

Her stomach sank. He never came home early. She forced herself to move, stepping fully into the house and closing the door behind her. The sound of the latch clicking into place felt like a gunshot in the quiet.

“I’m fine,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “You didn’t have to.”

His smile widened, and he stood, his movements fluid and deliberate. He was still handsome in a way that made her heart twist—tall and broad-shouldered, with a strong jaw and dark hair that was just beginning to gray at the temples. But there was something predatory in the way he carried himself, a sharpness that cut through the air around him.

“Of course I didn’t have to,” he said, closing the distance between them. “But you’re my wife, Eleanor. It’s my duty to look after you.”

The words made her want to laugh, bitter and sharp. He hadn’t looked after her in years, not in any way that mattered. But she kept her expression neutral, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

“I appreciate it,” she said.

William tilted his head, studying her like a hawk watching a mouse. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She flinched before she could stop herself, and his hand froze midair.

“Are you scared of me?” he asked, his voice soft but tinged with amusement.

“No,” she said quickly, too quickly.

He let his hand drop, his smile fading. “Good. Because you have no reason to be.”

Eleanor nodded, her pulse racing. She wanted to escape to the sanctuary of their bedroom, but she knew he wouldn’t let her go so easily.

“How’s the garden?” he asked, his tone casual.

“It’s fine,” she said. “The roses are blooming.”

“Good.” He stepped back, giving her just enough space to breathe. “I’ll be in my office. Don’t wait up.”

She nodded, watching as he disappeared down the hall. The moment he was out of sight, she let out a shaky breath and leaned against the wall, her legs trembling.

---

The bedroom felt colder than usual as Eleanor climbed into bed, her hands clutching the quilt her mother had made for her wedding gift. The soft fabric was worn now, but the intricate floral patterns still held a sense of comfort.

She closed her eyes, letting her mind drift back to her mother’s voice. It had been years since she’d heard it, but the memory was vivid—soft and melodic, the kind of voice that could soothe any fear. Her mother had always been her anchor, her greatest supporter. She had taught Eleanor how to garden, how to bake bread, how to find beauty in the smallest moments.

But her mother had also been the one to warn her.

“William is a strong man,” she had said the night before Eleanor’s wedding, her hands clasping Eleanor’s tightly. “But strength without kindness can become cruelty. Be careful, my love.”

Eleanor had brushed off the warning then, blinded by love and the promise of a future she thought she understood. But now, lying alone in the dark, her mother’s words felt like prophecy.

She reached for the drawer in the nightstand, pulling out a small wooden box. Inside was a photograph of her parents on their wedding day, their faces glowing with happiness. Eleanor traced her finger over her mother’s smile, tears welling in her eyes.

“I miss you,” she whispered.

The ache of her mother’s absence was compounded by the emptiness of her marriage. William had been so different in the beginning—charming, attentive, full of plans for their future. But when they discovered he couldn’t have children, everything had changed.

Eleanor had been devastated at first, mourning the loss of the family she had dreamed of. But she had come to terms with it, willing to explore other options—adoption, surrogacy, anything to build the life they had envisioned together.

William, however, had refused.

“I won’t have another man’s child in my house,” he had said, his voice cold and final.

She had tried to reason with him, but his stubbornness was unyielding. Over time, the resentment grew, spilling into every corner of their relationship. He began to pull away, seeking solace in the arms of younger women who still had the promise of motherhood ahead of them.

But it wasn’t just his infidelity that cut her—it was the way he flaunted it, as though punishing her for something she couldn’t control. And now, with the whispers of something far more sinister lurking beneath the surface, she wasn’t sure how much more she could endure.

---

The next morning, Eleanor woke to the sound of footsteps in the hall. She sat up, her heart pounding as the door creaked open.

William stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

“Breakfast,” he said, his tone clipped. “Join me.”

It wasn’t a request.

Eleanor nodded, throwing on a robe and following him downstairs. The dining table was set with their usual spread—coffee, toast, eggs—but there was an air of tension that made her stomach churn.

As she reached for the coffee pot, William spoke.

“You were out late last night.”

Her hand froze, the pot trembling slightly in her grip. “I told you, I went for a drive.”

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve been acting strange lately. Is there something you want to tell me?”

Eleanor set the pot down, her pulse racing. “No. Nothing.”

William smirked, but there was no humor in it. “Good. Because I wouldn’t want to think my wife has something to hide.”

The threat was subtle, but it was there, hanging in the air like a storm cloud. Eleanor forced herself to take a sip of coffee, her hands trembling as she brought the cup to her lips.

As she looked across the table at the man she had once loved, a chill ran down her spine.

**

A little cliff hanger for the next chapter:

Eleanor walks into William’s office later that day to leave a note, only to notice an envelope on his desk. Inside are photographs of a young woman she doesn’t recognize—taken from angles that suggest she had no idea she was being watched.