Chapter 1
1864 Words
“You are free to go now, Mr. Alex.”
The words hit in Alexander Richarlison’s chest like heavy stone. He is still standing, still in cuffs, still in the police chief office. Hands behind him, cold metal biting skin.
It has been one month. One long month since they locked him up. Every day felt long, every night longer. Sleep, it does not come easy. Only dreams, and bad ones. Dreams where he is running, running, and people shouting his name but he cannot stop.
The police chief leaned back in a big chair. Fingers drum drum drum on desk. His lips curve, but there was no warmth, no smile in it. “Mr. Alex, you lucky man. The victim—you knock down with car—she, she takes back charges.”
Lucky!
Alexander’s lips move little, maybe to smile, but no sound comes. No sound. Lucky, he thinks. Lucky is not a word for what happened.
He remembers, oh, he remembers that night like fire in brain. Trembling hands, shaking like leaves. Tear-stained face of his wife, Amanda. She kneels on floor, living room floor, palms pressed hard, begging like a little child.
“If this gets out, the board will remove me. Investors will pull. Company collapse,” she cried. Her voice breaks, voice small. “Please, Alex. It was not on purpose. I didn’t see her. I will be ruined.”
He stood there, frozen like ice.
He did not want to agree at first.
But when he learns what she can face in prison… oh. Something crack inside him. Something soft breaks. He cannot let that happen.
It is not a life-ending crime. Only traffic accidents. Only a small accident, but big for her. He thinks he can endure. He can carry the weight of the world if only she is safe.
He has nothing else. No company, no empire, no name in papers. Just her. Only her.
“Remove cuffs,” the chief said, casually, like nothing happened.
Two officers step forward. Keys click and scrape on metal. Cuffs open. Slide off. Red marks on wrist, pain little, reminder of month he was trapped.
He rub wrist. Look at Amanda’s face in memory. Face pale, crying. He swallow hard. Lucky, maybe, but lucky tastes bitter.
Outside, sunlight fall on his coat. The air feels strange, big, open. He take breath. Long, long breath. He is free, yes. But not free inside. Not yet.
He remembered something more. That night. Amanda cried. “You have to promise, Alex. Promise me, you will never leave me.”
He think, yes, he will promise. No matter the world, no matter the law, no matter the mistakes. He will hold her. Hold her tight. Never let go.
Cops step back. The door opened. Light fall in, warm and cruel, like the world went on without him for months. He stepped outside.
Amanda’s face, it come in his mind like she standing here now. So clear, so real. Her sharp face. Her eyebrows, they knit together when she worry. The smell of her perfume, it stays in the hallway at home. He breathed in the air and almost feel it.
He missed her more than he thought before. More than he knows he can miss someone. Heart, it beat fast, but also ache slow.
He walk slow, step by step, until he reach place where they give back his things. All his belongings in bag. Clear bag, plastic. Like evidence, like prison never really let go.
Inside: wallet. Phone. Watch. Only small things, but all his life feel in bag.
He sign papers. Hand shake little. He read words but not really see them. Only think: free.
Doors of station open. Air hit him. Cold. Fresh. Different. Life outside taste different than inside walls. He step out, stop on stairs. Concrete cold under shoes. He look street. Cars go fast. People walk. Talk. They no see him, no care he is gone a month. Life no pause, never wait.
He whispers little to himself: “Feels like I gone many many years.”
He pull phone from pocket. Hand shake little. He look screen. Today! Today, of all days…
Chest squeeze. Heart jump. Today, it their wedding anniversary!
He dial number. Ring ring. Ring ring. Ring stop. No voice. Nothing.
Try again. Ring. Ring. Stop. Still nothing.
Try third. Try fourth. His hand lower phone slowly. Eyes blink, hope fade little.
“She may be in a meeting,” he whisper. Try to say something like truth, maybe the truth. “She does not expect me today. She does not know I am free.”
A small smile come on his lips. Tiny, careful. Hope inside it.
“Roses… maybe roses are a good gift,” he thinks. Smile a little bigger, but still nervous. His heart still beat fast.
He walked down the street slow. Step careful. Watch people, watch cars, watch light. Everything is normal, but he feel world is new. He free, but inside him, story not finish. The story still live in heart.
He stop corner, look shop window. Flowers. Red, pink, white. Smell sweet. He pick red roses. Not too many, not too few. Perfect. His hands shake little holding stems.
“Hope she is happy,” he say. Whisper soft, like wind carry words. He imagine her face smile, soft smile, eyes shine like morning sun.
The phone rang again. He glanced. Still no answer. He sighs. Life is moving, Amanda is busy, he waits. Maybe she is surprised, maybe she cry happy. Maybe… maybe forgive him for the month he gone.
Step by step, he walk home. Bag swing little on arm. Roses smell strong. Heart heavy but light. Free, yes. But heart… heart tied to her still.
He reached the building. The door opened. Elevators ride up slow, like every floor stretches long. Hand touch wall, feel cold metal, feel reality. Floor beep, door open.
Hallway quiet. He walks small steps, careful. Listen. Listen for voice. For sound. For laughs. Anything.
His hand on the doorknob. He breathe deep. Cold air from outside is still on the skin. One step more, and he see her. His life. His home. His Amanda.
“Roses,” he whisper, almost shy. Almost hope. Heart beat like drum.
The thought come soft, almost shy. Alexander think it little, then move hand.
He take brown wallet from pocket. Flip it open slow. Leather soft, edges worn like old shoes. Inside, few folded bills sit quiet in corner. Same money he earn that day they take him away.
He count once. Then count again. Nothing more. That all.
He breathe slow. Not much money, no. But enough. Bouquet no need big, no need rich. Just enough to make her smile.
She stay alone, month long, in bedroom.
He close wallet. Step outside. Walk slow to small flower stand by road. Vendor smile, wrap roses in thin white paper. Red petals. Full. Fresh. He hold them careful, like baby, like glass. Wind try to push him, but he shield. Roses safe.
He reach house. Stop. Look.
Lights on.
Chest warm little. Heart beat little fast.
“One month whole,” he murmur, lips curl tiny smile. “I hope… hope she happy. I hope she no cry too much.”
He lift bouquet little, sniff smell. Light. Sweet. Clean. Smell like promise, smell like home.
“She love them,” he whisper, trying believe it himself.
Step closer. Hand on doorknob. Cold metal under fingers. Turn easy. Push door open.
Door make small creak. He freeze.
Not locked. Not even little.
At this hour? Strange.
He frown. “Maybe she forget,” he mutter. She always forget lock door after work. Kick heels off fast. Always rush. He laugh inside, tease her many times.
But… something is wrong. His heart beat a little faster. Head turn. Eyes look to the garage.
And then he see it.
Black Mercedes-Benz G-Class parked there. Beside Amanda’s white sedan.
Alexander fingers, they squeeze little more around flowers. Red petals soft, but hand tight.
“Huh…” he whisper. Mind spin, try find reason.
“Did… old lady buy her this?” he mutter.
By “old lady,” he mean Ivy Stuttgart.
Ivy Stuttgart. Big boss. Matriarch. Since husband die, she control all — family money, board, big empire, millions. People listen when she speak. Even investors, they careful, walk like cat on hot roof.
And… she never hide she dislike Alexander.
To her, he nothing. Just stain. Poor man, cling to granddaughter.
He remember. Days before he go jail, Amanda argue loud with Ivy. Ivy demand divorce. Already choose new man — rich son of old business friend.
Amanda? She refuse.
Alexander stand corner, silent. Ivy eyes cold, slide over him like he chair. Like he wall. Nothing.
Now… he look G-Class again outside.
Ivy reward disobedience? No. Not her style. Something wrong.
But… he step inside house. Door click shut behind him. Heart beat little fast. Suspicion try stay, but he push down.
Bouquet pressed to chest, careful not crush petals. He breathe slow. Smell home. Polished wood. Faint perfume. Air conditioner hum soft.
“Now I inside,” he whisper, grin small. “Where my lollipop?”
Lollipop. That’s Amanda. When she not iron lady of Stuttgart empire. Soft joke. Only he call her that. Voice float across living room.
No answer.
House neat. Too neat. Couch cushions perfect. Glass on table half wine, maybe.
He tilt head. “Honey? You sleep already?” Voice louder now.
Silence. Echo.
Two years. Two years marriage. Two years try learn each other. Adjust. Try.
He know. He no her level money, power, family. Everyone remind him. Her family make sure.
But Amanda? She never throw in face. Never look him like Ivy look. Like he dirt. Like he nothing.
That was enough for him. Heart squeeze, but also warm. Love is strong.
He move slow, step by step, further inside. Feet soft on floor.
“She must be upstairs,” he whisper to himself.
He imagine her. Curl in bed. Tired from work. Maybe she cry little while he gone. Maybe she fall asleep with tears. Heart squeeze. He swallow hard.
He start walk toward staircase.
Each step creak little under weight. Roses brush his jacket. Soft, red, alive.
Halfway up, he stop.
Something sound.
He freeze.
Another sound. Low. Breathless. Strange.
He frown. Brow pull together.
Then… again.
A moan.
Clearer now. Sharp.
Come down hallway. From bedroom. Their bedroom.
Alexander hand squeeze bouquet more. Petals press little. Heart beat slow first. Heavy. Then fast. Faster.
No.
He step one more, careful. Listen. Harder.
Sound again. Now he know. Cannot mistake. Intimate. Rhythmic. Woman voice rise, break, gasp.
Chest hollow. Stomach twist. Mind spin.
That voice…
He know that voice.
Roses slip little in hand. He frozen. On staircase. Eyes fixed. Bedroom door at end of hall. Closed. Silent? No. Not silent.
Sounds… they not stop.
Alexander stand. Heart pound loud. Hand shake little. Mind scream, try understand, try not believe.
And upstairs, behind that door… the world he thought safe, it shake.
- Writer
