The back garden glowed in the sunlight. My eyes swept over that flat patch of earth—where Anthea's white dahlias used to grow. She'd pick one or two, put them in a glass in our bedroom.
Last month, I'd ordered the whole bed ripped out because Vanessa claimed allergies. I remembered Anthea's face watching those dahlias destroyed. Devastated. Helpless. But she'd said nothing to me. Not even about the burn on her hand.
My chest tightened. I told myself those were necessary sacrifices. Once Vanessa and I were married, I'd plant Anthea's new garden fullof white dahlias. I'd learn to care for her. She could decorate however she wanted.
But what if I couldn't find her? I tried to shake the thought, but it burrowed deeper.
The study was so quiet I could hear the clock ticking. I'd never known waiting felt like this—like something slowly tightening around my stomach. Marco was my best man. He never dragged his feet. But now, over half an hour had passed with no word.
I rubbed my temples hard, forced myself to look at the files. Useless. The dread kept building. I picked up my phone, put it down. No calls. No messages. For the first time in my life, I tasted real anxiety.
An hour later, the phone finally rang.
"Boss..." Marco's voice carried a hesitation and weight I didn't like. "Found her."
"Which safe house? Or has she left the country?" I crushed down the unease and twirled a pen in my hand.
"No." Marco seemed to be swallowing hard. "We pulled the manor's recent surveillance. Miss Carter never left. We questioned the medical team. Their stories matched. They all said Miss Carter died at 3:42 a.m. a week ago from postpartum hemorrhage. And... we verified Miss Carter's death certificate is real."
Crack. The pen in my hand snapped in half, ink spattering across my palm.
"Lying. How much did Vanessa pay the medical team to spin this story?" I asked coldly. "A million? Five million? Or did she threaten their families?"
"If it's fake, the cost would be too high, Boss," Marco said quietly.
Ringing filled my ears, but I ignored it. Anthea wasn't dead. This was just Vanessa and my father's game.
"Check again!" I roared into the phone, fear I refused to acknowledge rising in my chest. "Check that goddamn death certificate, check what Vanessa's been doing this past week!"
I didn't wait for Marco's answer. Hung up. Anthea had spent herentire pregnancy at the manor. The doctors all said she was healthy. She couldn't just die like this.
Half an hour later, the second call came. Same result. Every lead, every piece of evidence pointed to Anthea being dead. No conspiracy. Just death.
The phone slipped from my hand and clattered on the desk. I sat motionless, violent heartbeat pounding in my ears. Then my gaze, as if pulled by something, slowly moved to the corner trash can.
That black box I'd thrown away with my own hands. No. Impossible. How could it be her? That warm, soft, lively woman—how could she become a box of cold ash?
"They're all lying," I whispered.
But my body lurched toward the trash can anyway. My legs buckled. I dropped to my knees. I reached into the can, trembling, pulled the urn from the pile of waste paper. It was light. Terrifyingly light. Was this Anthea?
Devastating pain drilled into my chest, worse than any bullet or knife wound I'd ever taken.
"Anthea." I cradled the box in both hands. "No. Don't fucking do this to me."
I tried to open it, but my fingers shook too badly. Finally got the lid off. Inside was just a bag of gray-white powder. No warmth. No breath.
Every memory of Anthea crashed over me, drowning me.
Valentine's night, she'd worn that ridiculous, sexy lingerie and seduced me, blushing like she was on fire. I'd given her a ring. She'd been disappointed when her swollen fingers couldn't wear it, but when I hung it around her neck, her eyes had lit up. And when I promised she'd always be the child's mother, those beautiful, wet eyes.
I'd never see any of it again?
"No... impossible." My throat felt blocked by stones.
All along, I'd treated Anthea like a useful tool, an object to manipulate. I thought no matter how I treated her, she'd be there waiting. But I was wrong. She was never coming back.
I clutched Anthea's urn tight. Hot liquid spilled from my eyes,dripping onto the box. I didn't want to cry, but the tears defied me. The moment I lost Anthea, I realized—I didn't just want to possess her. I'd fallen in love with her without even knowing when.
