He Begged Me to be His Wife again

I didn’t move. I didn’t even let myself breathe too deeply.

But I didn’t fight back, either.

Instead, I walked—slowly, quietly—to the center of that floor littered with coarse salt, each step crunching under my heels like glass. Then, wordlessly, I sank to my knees.

The sting came instantly.

It was sharp, raw, like fire biting through skin. Every grain of salt was a knife twisting into my flesh, cutting into my bones. Yet I didn’t flinch. My face remained calm. My spine straight. My mouth sealed shut.

Time distorted after that. Every second dragged itself across me like the dull edge of a blade. The air turned thick, heavy, unending.

By the end of the first hour, I felt something warm trickling down my shins—blood.

By the second, my sight blurred into soft colors, the edges of the room fading into a haze.

By the third, I didn’t feel human anymore. I was only a vessel of pain, hollowed out, while they watched to see if I’d shatter.

Still, I refused to make a sound.

Then, movement.

A faint stir from the bed.

Marcelline.

Like she’d timed it for effect, she fluttered her lashes delicately, let out a faint, pitiful sigh, and turned her head with all the fragility of a woman in a melodrama.

“Leon…?” Her voice cracked like porcelain—dainty, weak, rehearsed.

He was at her side before I could even blink.

He brushed her hair from her face, gazing at her as though she hadn’t been the very reason my world collapsed. She looked around groggily, then—like a saint surveying sin—her eyes landed on me.

There I was. Kneeling. Bleeding. Silent. Refusing to fall.

“Leon,” she whispered faintly, “why… why is she like that?”

“She needed time to think,” he said gruffly. “You could’ve died.”

Her eyelids fluttered again. Perfectly timed. Then, predictably, the tears began to slide down her cheeks—slow, graceful, controlled.

“Please,” she said softly. “Don’t make her kneel for me. She’s grieving too. She lost her fiancé on their wedding day. I know she resents me, but… I’ve always cared for her.”

Her hand trembled just enough as she touched his wrist. “Please, my love. Don’t let hatred consume you. I don’t want my pain to turn you into someone cruel. When I’m gone, promise me you’ll forgive her. Promise you’ll let both of you heal.”

Then she broke into sobs—loud, wet, convincing. It was a performance, and she knew exactly when to hit her marks.

I couldn’t help it.

A sound escaped me—not a cry, but laughter.

Low, cracked, bitter.

I raised my head slowly. Blood had already seeped through the silk of my dress. My knees were open wounds, my throat parched. And yet all I could do was laugh harder.

“You’re not dying,” I rasped. “You’re performing.”

“Aria, stop,” Toby snapped, his jaw tightening.

“No.” My voice cut through the air like broken glass. “You want me to crumble? You want me to break like her? Then do better than salt and silence. Because no matter how hard you try, you can’t rewrite what you did.”

I took a shaky breath.

“You abandoned me. Lied to me. Left me drowning in grief while you played house with a woman who wore my perfume and smiled at my grave.”

His face hardened. His eyes—those eyes I once trusted—refused to meet mine.

Marcelline sniffled softly. “Why are you saying this?” she whispered. “Why are you trying to hurt us?”

“Because it’s the truth,” I said simply. “And the worst part is—you both know it.”

I pushed myself up. Every movement burned, every nerve screamed, but I stood anyway. Blood ran down my legs, mixing with salt that clung to me like sin. Still, I kept my balance. Still, I met his gaze.

“You’re not punishing me,” I murmured, voice almost calm. “You’re punishing yourself. Because I’m still standing, and that terrifies you.”

He didn’t respond. He just stared at me, like reality was finally peeling back the mask he’d been hiding behind.

---

By the time I was discharged from the hospital, the wounds on my knees had reopened beneath the bandages. The salt had embedded itself deep, like it didn’t want to leave me.

When we got home, Toby pretended nothing had happened.

He followed me quietly into the house, wearing that same old mask of tenderness. He moved carefully, gently, as if trying to convince himself that everything was fine.

He returned a few minutes later carrying a steaming cup of tea.

“You should drink something warm,” he said softly, setting it down in front of me. “Ginger. You used to like this, remember?”

I stared at the cup, then at him.

There was nothing left in my face—no anger, no sorrow. Just emptiness.

“I need air,” I muttered. That was all.

He reached toward me, maybe to stop me, maybe to pretend he still had the right to touch me. But before his hand met mine, a shrill voice crackled through the intercom upstairs.

“Leon—!” Marcelline’s voice screamed, panicked and breathless. “I—I can’t breathe! Please! My chest—it hurts!”

Toby’s head snapped up, panic flooding his features. Without hesitation, he ran for the stairs.

“Stay here,” he barked over his shoulder. “Don’t go anywhere.”

But I was already at the door.

---

A taxi waited by the curb.

Not fancy, not suspicious—just a plain black sedan with tinted windows. The driver, a middle-aged man in sunglasses, gave me a small nod as I approached.

I slipped into the backseat, ignoring the sticky feeling of blood soaking through my bandages. I didn’t flinch, didn’t wince. I’d already spent three hours kneeling on salt. Pain meant nothing now.

“Ms. Linton?” the driver asked, tone calm, measured.

I nodded.

“Good,” he said quietly. “We’re set. Gareth cleared the path. We’ll take the longer route—less traffic, fewer eyes. When we reach Marker 17… it starts.”

I said nothing. My eyes stayed on the road winding up the mountainside.

---

Halfway up the mountain, the driver spoke again.

“We’ll switch vehicles once the report goes public. The stand-in’s already arranged. Female corpse—similar height, build. Gareth had her kept on ice for two weeks. The blast will make sure she’s unrecognizable. But your DNA—blood, hair, ID, jewelry—everything’s ready for confirmation.”

I nodded once, slow and deliberate. “Thank you.”

He glanced at me through the rearview mirror, studying me for a moment. “Gareth said you’d thank me like that. No fear. No emotion. Just quiet. Like someone who’s already said goodbye to the world.”

He was right. Because I had.

I died the day of my wedding. The day the helicopter never came. The day I realized I’d been replaced by a woman who cried on cue and smiled at my ruin.

I turned to the window, watching the fog thicken outside, and whispered, barely audible, “Make sure they see it. Make sure they believe it.”

The driver didn’t respond. He only pressed down on the accelerator.

---

Three minutes later, the explosion tore through the silence.

It sounded like thunder breaking open the sky. A flash of orange swallowed the trees, then a plume of black smoke spiraled upward. The car flipped twice before bursting into flames, fire blooming against the night.

People down the mountain saw it. Some screamed. Others ran for help. A shepherd called it in before the flames died.

When rescue arrived, they found what was left of a body—charred beyond recognition.

Beside it lay a melted wristwatch, the metal warped but the engraving still faintly legible: Aria.

A half-burned wallet lay a few inches away, and what remained of the ID still bore the name:

Aria Linton

---

Toby’S POV

The kettle whistled just as I was pouring Marcelline her tea.

My phone buzzed on the counter, and without checking who it was, I answered impatiently.

“Yeah?”

“Boss! Boss—it’s Ms. Aria—” the voice on the other end stammered. “There’s been an accident. A car crash—she’s gone, sir. Dead. Just happened ten minutes ago!”