Chapter Two
Ariana
I stared at my reflection in Henry’s bathroom mirror, barely able to recognize myself.
Hallow cheeks.
Dull eyes.
A woman who’d killed her husband mere minutes ago.
Killed.
The word scraped along the inside of my skull. It didn’t fit. It didn’t feel real. It felt like something said about someone else on the news.
Not about me.
And now Henry was downstairs cleaning up my mess. Disposing of my husband’s body.
I should have felt relief that Victor was gone and could never hurt me again.
I didn’t.
I didn’t know what I felt right now.
Turning from my reflection, I walked toward the large shower and cranked the water to scalding, steam filling the room.
I slowly peeled off my clothes, dropping them into a heap on the tile before stepping under the spray.
At the first contact, I released a small yelp, the water hitting my skin in sharp, punishing needles. But I didn’t lower the temperature. Instead, I forced myself to endure the pain. The punishment. The torment.
I tilted my face up, letting the water cascade over me, down my neck, between my breasts, along my stomach, rinsing away the last few hours.
I closed my eyes, finding strength in the pain. In the burn.
But as I did, Victor’s face appeared.
Not as he looked in our wedding photos.
Or how he appeared during charity galas with his charming, polished smiles that hid all manner of lies.
Instead, the face that stared back at me was the one he wore tonight, his eyes pleading with me, wide with fear and desperation, as I raised that knife one last time and plunged it into his heart, blood spraying from him.
My stomach lurched, and I snapped my eyes open, looking down at my hands.
They were red.
So fucking red.
Dark, slick blood clung to my fingers, pooled in my palms, and ran in thin rivers down my wrists. It gathered at my elbows and dripped to the tile, a pool of crimson at my feet.
I blinked once. Twice.
When I focused again, the water was clear.
My hands were clean.
But I still felt it.
