My Husband Saved Her Cat While My Father Bled to Death

“Give it to me, Callie.” Clyde’s voice was a low, dangerous rumble over the rain.

I hugged the wooden urn tighter to my chest. It was small. It was all I had left of my father. “No.”

He didn’t like that word. He stepped closer. His expensive shoes sank into the wet earth. “You are embarrassing me. You are embarrassing yourself. Give me the box.”

“He’s my father,” I whispered. My throat felt like it was lined with glass. “You took his life. Let me have this.”

His jaw tightened. A vein pulsed at his temple. The reformed billionaire vanished, and the underground syndicate boss took his place. He reached out and grabbed my wrist. His fingers dug into my skin like steel clamps.

“Let go!” I cried out. I pulled back.

He yanked my arm hard. “I said, enough!”

His other hand swung out to pry the urn from my grip. He struck the polished wood. Hard.

The impact jarred my bones. The urn slipped from my wet, freezing fingers. Time seemed to slow down. I watched the box tumble through the gray air. It hit the corner of a granite headstone with a sharp crack. The lid snapped off.

A pale cloud burst into the rain.

My father’s ashes scattered in the wind for a fraction of a second. Then they hit the ground. They mixed with the dark, heavy mud of Green-Wood Cemetery.

I dropped to my knees. The cold mud soaked right through my black tights. I stared at the gray paste. I tried to scoop it up. My hands came away covered in wet dirt and ash.

“Look what you made me do,” Clyde sighed above me. He sounded exhausted. Not sorry. Just inconvenienced. “Get up, Callie. You’re covered in filth.”

I looked at my hands. Then I looked up at him. He stood tall in his perfectly tailored suit, holding a large black umbrella to keep the rain off his shoulders. He didn’t care. He truly didn’t care.

In that exact moment, something inside my chest snapped. The warmth, the grief, the desperate love I once held for this man—it all just evaporated. My heart turned as cold and gray as the mud on my hands.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just stood up.

“Okay,” I said quietly.

He blinked, surprised by my suddenly flat tone. “Okay?”

“I’m ready to go home,” I said. I wiped my hands on my coat. I kept my face completely blank. I made my eyes dull. A perfect, empty shell.

Clyde’s shoulders relaxed. A smug, satisfied smile touched his lips. He thought he had broken me. He thought he had finally won. “Good girl. Let’s go.”

The ride back to Manhattan was totally silent. I sat in the back of the SUV and watched the city blur past the rain-streaked window. Clyde made a phone call about a corporate merger. He didn’t look at me once.

When we walked into our penthouse, the silence felt heavy. The air was thick and oppressive. It didn’t feel like a home anymore. It felt like a cage of glass and steel.

“Go take a shower,” Clyde ordered. He tossed his keys on the marble counter. “Wash that mud off. We have a dinner with the board tonight. Wear the blue silk dress.”

“Yes, Clyde,” I said softly. I kept my eyes on the floor. I made my shoulders slump. I gave him the exact picture of a defeated, submissive wife.

He walked over and kissed the top of my head. My skin crawled, but I didn’t flinch. “I’m glad you’re finally being reasonable, Callie. This is for the best.”

He turned and walked into his study. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind him.

I stood alone in the grand foyer. My heart beat in a slow, steady rhythm. The weeping girl was dead. I was completely awake now.

I walked down the long hallway toward our master bedroom. My wet shoes left faint, muddy prints on the white rug. I didn’t care.

Halfway down the hall hung our wedding portrait. It was massive, encased in a custom silver frame. Clyde had commissioned it from a famous photographer. In the picture, Clyde looked powerful and handsome in his tuxedo. I stood next to him in my lace gown, looking up at him with absolute adoration. A foolish, blind girl.

I stopped and stared at the photo. The girl in the picture made me sick.

I reached up and unlatched the back of the heavy frame. I pulled the large, glossy photograph out. The paper was thick and expensive.

I placed my thumb right at the top, right between our smiling faces.

I pulled down.

The thick paper tore with a loud, satisfying rip. The sound echoed in the quiet hallway. I tore it slowly, carefully, right down the middle. I separated the foolish girl from the monster.

I held my half of the photo. I looked at my smiling face, then crumpled it into a tight ball. I threw it into the trash can.

I took Clyde’s half of the photo and placed it back into the silver frame. I smoothed out the torn edge. Now, he stood completely alone in the frame. Just a man and empty, white space beside him.

It was a promise. A trigger for him to find later. When he looked at this wall, he would know exactly what he had done. He hadn’t just killed my father. He had erased me.

I turned away from the portrait and walked into the bathroom. I turned on the shower. I let the scalding water wash my father’s ashes off my hands. I watched the gray water swirl down the drain.

I was going to destroy him. And I was going to take everything he had.