CHASING THE UNWANTED WIFE

4 - He Loves Another

“Theron…” Callista spoke her husband’s name in a barely audible whisper. Her voice soft, low, and unsteady.

He didn’t hear her, or maybe his ears simply refused to let her voice in. Maybe his mind didn’t want to acknowledge her presence.

A bitter smile tugged on her lips.

“If you can’t give Isolde back to me, then just end me now! I do not want this life without her!” Theron continued to plead, his voice strained from desperation. The veins in his neck protruded, and his face had grown even redder than it had been moments ago.

Bending down, he grabbed an empty bottle and smashed it hard against the ground, sending shards of glass flying. He reached for another, and the violence continued.

Anxiety gripped Callista, her gaze followed the spot where the bottle had struck the ground. She worried that a shard of broken glass might ricochet toward him and scrape his skin. Despite the pain in her chest, protecting Theron was still all she could think about.

Because she loved him.

Loved him so much that knowing he despised her hurt more than anything.

When his hand closed around another bottle, Callista quickly threw herself in front of him and wrapped her arms around him in a protective embrace, burying her face against his chest.

“Isolde? Is it you?” he asked, his voice dropping to a softer, gentler note.

She knew his eyes were on her, yet she couldn’t bring herself to look up. She was afraid that seeing her face would only disappoint him.

“Look at me, Isolde. I want to see your face. I missed you so, so much…”

Her chest tightened.

Her heart ached.

A bitter emotion curled around her throat.

Refusing to look up, Callista kept her face lowered. But Theron’s hand came down, his fingers curling beneath her chin as he tried to tilt her face upward. Three times, she did her best to resist. On the fourth, she could no longer fight it.

The moment Theron saw her face, his expression darkened, and the warmth in his eyes vanished. The gentle glint that flickered in them when he thought she was Isolde disappeared instantly. Like it had been wiped away. Then the harshness and coldness returned, and his eyes were once again filled with open hostility.

“What the f*ck are you doing here, Callista?” His voice was thick with contempt. Without the slightest care, he pried her arms from around him, then pushed her away so forcefully that she fell to the ground and hurt her ankle. Her hands had landed just inches from several jagged shards of glass.

That scared her, but what scared her more was the complete lack of concern in her husband’s eyes. He wasn’t worried about whether she was hurt. He didn’t care.

All he cared about was his own pain.

“Why did you follow me here? You know this tree is special to me and Isolde. You are the filth that dirties the purity of this place. From now on, you are forbidden from stepping anywhere near this tree.”

Alcohol hadn’t dulled his words. Every syllable came out clear and deliberate, each one sharpened by resentment.

“I’m warning you, Callista. If I ever see you near this place again, I will break your legs myself!” he snapped, his jaw clenching hard. He wasn't joking.

She didn’t know what to say, but every word he uttered felt like a sharp arrow piercing her heart.

‘He would break her just to protect what belongs to him and Isolde,’ she thought bitterly.

Theron squatted in front of her and gripped her cold, pale face in one hand, his fingers tightening until pain shot through her jaw.

“Theron, you’re hurting me,” she cried, her eyes reddening as her lips trembled.

“Hurting you? You deserve to be hurt—over and over again—for wanting something that shouldn’t be yours. You have everything, and I am all Isolde has, yet you still took me away from her. You stole something that belongs to another. Does that make you happy?”

“I just love you so much, Theron! I have loved you since I was a child!” Memories of their childhood flooded her mind. He had always said he didn’t like her, yet he had tolerated her presence. She had clung to him, following him wherever he went. He was the one who always walked ahead, while she trailed behind, so often that she had memorized the shape of his back. But whenever she fell, he would look back and reach out a hand to help her up.

His hand had always been warm. Whenever his fingers closed around hers, she convinced herself that he cared.

“You don’t know how to love. You only know how to take. You are selfish, and you’re a wh*re who shamelessly forced yourself on me just to drag me to the altar. But you will never be a real wife. You will always be just a wh*re to me. Remember that.”