He Begged Me to be His Wife again

They discovered me around twenty minutes later.

Two guards from the auction house — both young, both visibly nervous — stumbled into the cold storage room where I lay. They looked like they were used to dealing with drunken brawls between billionaires, not half-conscious women on freezing floors.

The metal door groaned open, echoing like a sound underwater. My head refused to lift. My mouth wouldn’t form words. My body was locked in place — muscles rigid, fingers stiff, skin clammy from the cold.

“Miss—miss! We need medical assistance down here! Now!” one of them shouted, voice trembling.

The rest blurred together — noise and motion bleeding into each other. Arms lifted me off the ground. Warmth brushed my skin and I let out a small, broken sound before darkness swallowed me again.

Everything after that came in flickering fragments — lights flashing against white ceilings, the hiss of oxygen tubes, the sterile beeping of machines. Someone tucked thick blankets around me, whispering instructions I couldn’t understand. The sounds grew softer, slower. Someone uttered the word trauma like it was nothing more than another checkbox to tick off.

Not once did my phone ring.

No messages.

No missed calls.

No sign of Toby.

I waited — foolishly — to hear his voice just one more time. But silence was all I got.

Later, I found out the reason why. Marcelline had told him I checked into a hotel — that I wanted space to calm down, to “cool off.”

And he’d believed her. Instantly. Without a shred of doubt.

He always believed her. Always.

---

By the time I dragged myself back home, exhaustion had sunk into my bones. My reflection in the hallway mirror looked pale and hollow — a ghost wearing my skin.

The house was immaculate. Too quiet. Too polished. Like no one had actually lived there for years.

And then I saw him — standing right in the middle of the living room.

Toby.

Or Leon.

Or whoever the hell he decided to be today.

He didn’t move as I stepped inside. His posture was rigid, face hard, eyes burning with something I couldn’t name. It was the kind of look that came from hours of rehearsing what to say and how to say it.

I barely made it three steps before he thrust a sheet of paper toward me.

A medical form.

I didn’t need to unfold it to know what it was.

I recognized the crisp white of the abortion documents I had tucked deep inside my drawer — a drawer Marcelline must have rifled through while I was gone. She probably handed it to him herself, triumphant.

“You wanna explain what the hell this is?” he snapped, voice rough, tight with fury.

I didn’t answer. I just looked at him — calm, blank — while he held that paper like it was bleeding in his hands.

“You killed my brother’s child?” he shouted, his face twisting. “You—what? Just threw it away? Like it meant nothing? Like it was garbage?”

I blinked once. Slowly.

He took a step forward, voice rising. “You’re not even sorry, are you? You look proud of yourself. Tell me, Aria — is this your revenge? Is this how you prove you’re strong?”

Then it happened.

A sharp, echoing crack.

His hand connected with my cheek, snapping my head sideways. The taste of iron filled my mouth.

I didn’t fall.

But I staggered.

Before I could even steady myself, another blow came — smaller, but fiercer.

His mother.

She stood trembling with rage, her pearl necklace clattering against her chest like it could feel her anger, too.

“You heartless creature,” she hissed. “You killed our blood! You threw away that baby like it was filth on the street!”

Her palm struck me again — a sharp slap that stung across my skin.

“Marcelline told us everything,” she seethed. “You never loved this family. You were nothing but a charity case — a pretty little project. And now look at you. Empty belly, empty heart.”

Tears rolled down my cheeks. Not because of pain — that had burned out long ago — but because my body didn’t know what else to do. I stood there and let them curse me, let them spit their venom and call it justice.

Then something in me hardened.

I straightened, wiped the blood from the corner of my lip, and looked Toby in the eye.

“Why are you angry?” I said quietly. “If I ended the pregnancy… what does it matter? You’re not Toby. You’re his brother. Remember?”

His face went pale. His jaw slackened. But I didn’t stop.

“Stop pretending to be him,” I said flatly.

Marcelline laughed behind him — a high, brittle sound that cut through the air like glass. “You hear that, baby?” she taunted, stepping closer. “She’s finally figured it out. You’re mine now. She’s just bitter because her fairytale ended.”

She leaned lazily against the wall, her grin curving like a blade. “And let’s be honest — she never wanted that baby. She just needed something to make her look pitiful.”

That was when I smiled. Not the kind that warms. The kind that wounds.

“Or maybe,” I said slowly, holding Toby’s gaze, “you are Toby. And you’ve been pretending to be Leon all along.”

The air went still. Even Marcelline froze.

“But whichever you are,” I continued, stepping forward, “I don’t care anymore.”

My voice didn’t tremble. It didn’t rise. It was calm — deadly calm.

“I’m done. I’m not part of this family anymore.”

I looked at each of them — the woman who once called me daughter, the man who once promised forever, the mistress who wore my perfume and my place.

And I smiled.

“Whatever love I had left,” I whispered, “died in that frozen room.”

Toby’s expression cracked — his eyes wide, his mouth unsteady. The panic in his face was unmistakable — the kind that hits when you finally realize you’ve gone too far and there’s no way back.

“Marcelline—” he started, his voice shaking.

But I was already walking away.