Buried Secrets: The Wife Who Refused to Fade

“I’ve filed for divorce.” The words hit like a cold slap, each syllable cutting through the warm, fragrant air of their dining room. Rosalind Lopes's fingers curled into her palm, nails pressing hard enough to sting. Tristan Bajusz barely spared her a glance as he strode forward, his polished shoes clicking against the floor. His tone was brisk, impatient. “Six million should set you up for life.” A slow breath. A heartbeat of silence. Rosalind lifted her gaze, steady but unreadable. “It’s our anniversary today,” she said softly. “Can’t we at least finish this meal together?” The dishes in front of them—his favorites—sat untouched, their steam curling toward the ceiling in a silent plea. She had spent hours preparing them, every slice, every seasoning placed with care. Tristan exhaled, his expression unreadable. Then, he scoffed. “Even if we finish this meal together, I’ll never love you.” Something in his face shifted, softening. But it wasn’t for her. “Besides,” he continued, “Emery’s back.” A name. That was all it took. A flicker of warmth crossed his features, the kind Rosalind had never seen directed at her. She had spent three years caring for his family, bending over backward to be the wife he wanted. But her devotion had been like water poured into a cracked vase—wasted, seeping into nothing. Emery Csany. The woman who had left him behind three years ago without a second thought. The woman who still held his heart. Rosalind’s grip on the table tightened. “Does your grandfather know?” she asked, forcing her voice to remain steady. Tristan’s lips curled into something close to a sneer. “Don’t think you can hide behind Grandpa. He’s in the hospital. He doesn’t need the stress.” He leaned back, his posture exuding indifference. “My parents are on board with the divorce. In fact, Emery met with them today.” A slow, creeping cold spread through Rosalind’s chest. She had given up everything. Once celebrated as a genius performer, a renowned hacker, a weapons designer sought after by world leaders—she had buried it all for this life. Just recently, she had secured an opportunity with Trojan, the most elusive intelligence network, to help the Hawkins family clinch a crucial deal. It had taken years to get this close. And yet, to Tristan, none of it mattered. “So, Emery’s at your parents’ place?” she asked, voice brittle. “Naturally.” His expression softened again, his lips twitching into something dangerously close to a smile. “They just had dinner. My parents adore her. They’ve been singing her praises all evening—saying how thoughtful and understanding she is.” Thoughtful and understanding. The same words they had once used for her. Rosalind’s throat felt tight, but she refused to look away. “You all knew she was coming back,” she murmured. “And you left me in the dark.” Tristan sighed, as if she were exhausting him. “It wasn’t intentional. The butler forgot to mention it. Don’t start creating drama where there isn’t any.” For the first time, he really looked at her. She wasn’t unattractive—far from it. Delicate features, flawless skin, striking eyes. But none of it had ever stirred anything in him. Rosalind was predictable, routine-bound. Every morning, she ironed his clothes. Every evening, she prepared his meals. He never had to guess where she was or what she was doing. It had been suffocating. Emery, on the other hand, was fire—untamed, unpredictable. His patience thinning, he checked his watch. “You’re leaving tonight. You can move to Crabbluck Villas. The house is yours.” A generous offer, he thought. After all, Rosalind came from nothing—a small town, no formal education. If she hadn’t saved his grandfather’s life, she never would have married into the Hawkins family in the first place. But Rosalind didn’t react the way he expected. She didn’t weep. She didn’t plead. She simply stared at him, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. Then, she smiled—a slow, thin curve of her lips that held no warmth. “So, she’s moving in now?” Tristan hesitated. “The second-floor bedroom was always hers.” He rubbed his temple, as if this conversation was an inconvenience. “She has nowhere else to go. If you’re still here, she’ll feel uncomfortable.” Rosalind let out a quiet breath, more disbelief than anything else. Uncomfortable. How ironic. Tristan mistook her silence for resistance. His jaw tensed. “Don’t push it, Rosalind. You need to know when enough is enough.” He turned away, already done with the conversation. “The divorce papers are filed. We’ll meet in court in a few days. Get yourself a lawyer.” He never got to finish. “I know what to do,” she cut in, her voice laced with something sharp. Tristan stilled. For a moment, Rosalind wasn’t here, in this cold dining room. She was a child again—blind, helpless, stumbling through darkness. A boy had carried her on his back for three days and nights, whispering promises that kept her alive. His name had been Tristan Bajusz. Now, years later, that same boy was the one casting her aside. Time had a cruel way of turning people into strangers. Rosalind pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. She looked at Tristan—really looked at him—one last time. “I’ll go,” she said simply. And then, softer, with a finality that settled deep in her bones: “From now on, we owe each other nothing.” Tristan exhaled, relieved. “Good.” As if on cue, footsteps echoed from the stairs. The housekeeper, Cecília Abreu appeared at the landing, struggling with a suitcase. “Sir, your parents called. They want Mrs. Lopes gone now.” She fumbled theatrically, letting out a dramatic yelp. The suitcase tumbled down the stairs, bursting open. Clothes spilled across the floor, scattering like discarded memories. For the first time that night, Rosalind laughed. It was soft, bitter, and entirely devoid of sorrow. She turned on her heel and walked away, stepping over the mess without a backward glance.