The Love that Kills me

Chapter 6

Stephen was with his friends that night, laughter echoing around the table like it always had. The expensive whiskey in their glasses shimmered in the light, and the air was thick with the scent of cigars and bravado.

“How’s life?” one of them asked, clapping Stephen on the shoulder.

“It’s fine,” Stephen replied, his voice calm and measured.

Another of them leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing at his lips. “But you still love Daia, right?” he teased.

Stephen didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. They all knew. It was an unspoken truth that hovered in the air like the smoke from their cigars.

One of them laughed and said, “You know, Stephen, you’re wasting that pretty wife of yours. Why don’t you lend her to us for a night? You don’t even want her, do you?”

The table erupted in laughter, but Stephen’s jaw tightened.

“Come on, man,” another one said, still grinning. “Does Hope moan sweetly? We could use a little fun, too.”

The laughter felt like needles in his skin. His hand tightened around his glass until he thought it might shatter.

He didn’t know why, but he heard himself say, his voice low and cold, “Try making it a joke again, and I’ll rip you apart.”

The table fell silent, the laughter dying in an instant. His friends stared at him, shock written on their faces. Someone tried to brush it off with a laugh. “Come on, Stephen, we’re just joking—”

But he didn’t wait to hear the rest. He stood up and walked away, the weight of his anger and confusion pressing on his shoulders.

Outside, the night was cool. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, watching the smoke curl into the dark sky. He tried to tell himself he didn’t care. That he shouldn’t care. Hope was just… Hope. The woman he’d been forced to marry, the pawn he’d used again and again. He didn’t owe her anything.

But the way they spoke about her, like she was nothing—like she was only there for them to use—it twisted something in his gut.

Why did he care?

He exhaled slowly, the smoke dissipating into the night. He shouldn’t have cared. He should have laughed along with them. That was what he’d always done—pushed Hope away, made her feel small and worthless. But now… now he couldn’t.

As he stood there, he heard the soft voices of two young women walking past.

“…I swear, she must be the most pitiful wife in this entire room,” one said with a cruel laugh. “Hope Kingsley. Married for four years and not even a child to show for it.”

The other girl snickered. “I even heard Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley asking her about it. Like it’s her fault. She’s so stupid. She’s probably crying herself to sleep every night, thinking Stephen will love her one day.”

Stephen’s jaw clenched. He told himself to ignore it, to let it slide off him like water off a duck’s back. But he couldn’t. Their laughter, their mocking words—it felt like a knife to the gut.

He turned away, the cigarette burning low between his fingers, and walked back into the party. He scanned the crowd, searching for the one person he had spent so long trying to forget.

And there she was.

Hope was sitting at the table, a fragile smile painted across her lips. She was dressed beautifully, her hair shimmering under the lights, but he could see the pain in her eyes—eyes that looked everywhere but at him.

She was trying so hard to play the part of the perfect wife, to pretend she hadn’t heard the whispers, hadn’t felt the cruel laughter slicing through her heart.

But Stephen saw it. He saw the way her hands trembled as she picked up her glass. He saw the way she blinked rapidly, holding back tears that threatened to spill.

When they finally got home, Hope said nothing. She didn’t even look at him. She simply walked past him and into her room, the door clicking shut behind her.

He stood in the hallway, staring at that closed door. He could hear her—soft sobs, muffled by the thick walls. And something inside him flickered—something he didn’t want to name.

He lifted his hand, pressing his palm against the door as if he could reach her through the wood. He wanted to tell her… what? That he was sorry? That he hadn’t meant for this to happen? That he didn’t know why he cared that she was crying?

But he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t.

So he stayed there for a long time, listening to the sound of her heartbreak on the other side of the door, and wondering when he had started to care.