No Longer the Obedient Wife

Anabelle threw herself into Armand’s arms like a damn soap opera star, and she giggled as she smacked his chest like he was the love of her life and not just the latest prize. He laughed—low and smooth—and yet his eyes? They flicked right to me.

He was waiting for something. A reaction, maybe. Jealousy, perhaps. Anger, even.

But I gave him nothing, and that... That pissed him off more than any slap ever could.

“You’ve been glued to that phone since we left the hospital,” Armand said, and his voice was cold, sharp like a blade sliding slow across skin.

“You texting your cousin or someone I need to know about?”

I did not even blink. I had just booked my one-way out of this circus and locked the screen.

“Just the news,” I replied, and I was cool as ice.

Wrong answer.

His jaw clenched like he was biting back a growl, and then he lunged and snatched the phone from my hand.

“What’s the password?”

“My birthday.”

Five damn years married, and he still did not know it by heart.

He tried and failed, and the phone locked itself, and the tension inside the car thickened into silence.

When we got back to the house, like clockwork, Armand turned into the doting daddy-to-be. He guided Anabelle into the master bedroom like she was royalty, and his eyes were soft, and his hand was resting on her back.

He told the cook to whip up all her cravings like she ran the place now.

I was already halfway to the guest room when I heard him mutter behind me,

“Make a few of Harriet’s favorites too. Set the table for three.”

For three. Right.

Like I had not just been erased in public, in private, and in every damn way.

In the guest room, I popped open my suitcase.

Slashed.

Every piece of clothing was ripped to shreds like some jealous brat with scissors had gone on a spree. But my passport was untouched, and that was smart. Even snakes have limits when it comes to international crimes.

As I turned to leave, there she was.

Anabelle stood there like she owned the damn world, leaning against the doorway with one stiletto heel hooked behind the other, a silver lighter twirling between her fingers like a loaded weapon.

“Aw,” she cooed, voice dipped in mock pity. “Still here, Harriet? I figured you’d finally crawl back to whatever dusty hole you came from. But look at you—still pretending this is your house. Still playing wife like the credits didn’t roll on your sad little story.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t flinch. That alone seemed to piss her off. She pushed off the frame and sauntered in, slow and smug.

“You know,” she continued, circling me like a predator, “I used to wonder what Armand ever saw in you. Then I met your grandma—saintly, boring, sentimental. And it all made sense. You were just a placeholder. A charity case with a wedding ring.”

I clenched my fists, jaw tight.

“Oh, don’t do the whole tragic silent act,” she laughed. “He hates that too, you know. Told me once, in bed, that it was like screwing a ghost. So quiet. So polite. So dull. He said he used to fake exhaustion just to get away from you.”

I stayed silent.

“But me?” Her lips curled. “He begs. He pleads. Sometimes he cries. It’s actually pathetic, but sweet. He says I make him feel alive. That I light him up. That he was starving with you.”

She stepped closer, face inches from mine.

“You were a routine. I’m the addiction.”

I still said nothing. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction. But my heart was hammering hard enough to crack bone.Her smile slipped just slightly. She hated that I wasn’t breaking.

“Oh, right,” she added, tapping her temple like it just occurred to her. “Your precious nonna. Dead, right? That must’ve been hard. All alone in that hospital while you were screaming at Armand to come.”

She pulled out her phone and shoved it into my face.

“Wanna see why he didn’t?”

I didn’t want to—but I looked.

The photo: her and Armand on the beach. His hands tangled in her hair. Her legs in his lap. Sun dipping low behind them like a damn postcard.

“My idea,” she said sweetly. “I wanted to see the ocean. He wanted to say no—but I told him you’d understand. After all, you’re so reasonable. Right?”

I saw red.

My hand moved on instinct—I slapped the phone out of hers, sent it crashing into the wall.

And then I grabbed her by the collar.

Her eyes widened for a split second before she grinned.

“I knew you had it in you,” she whispered. “Too bad it’s too late.”

She lifted the lighter, flame flickering.

“You think you’re the storm, Harriet?” Her grin stretched. “I am the wildfire.”

She tossed it backward—into the sheer curtains. They exploded into flames like paper.

I turned toward the door—locked.

The smoke came fast, thick and heavy. Anabelle backed up into the corner, laughing through the growing haze.

“Let’s see who he saves,” she crooned. “I told him I couldn’t breathe without him. Let’s see if he believes it.”

I coughed hard, stumbling. The room was heat and choking ash.

“Don’t worry,” she called out through the crackling flames. “He’ll bury you like he did your love. With guilt. Quietly. In the past.”

I kicked the window—jammed. But then I remembered. The old vent behind the dresser.

I shoved the nightstand aside—once, twice, until it scraped far enough. The vent cover was rusted, but loose. My fingers worked at the screws, burning, shaking.

Behind me, the fire howled.

And then—

“Harriet!”

His voice. Desperate. Panicked.

Servants screamed, “Sir, wait—”

“She’s still in there!”

I froze. For one second, I let hope in.

But when he kicked down the door, when the smoke parted... He didn’t even look at me.

Anabelle collapsed into a perfect heap by the bed.

“L-Armand,” she gasped, like she’d rehearsed it.

He ran to her. Scooped her up like some tragic goddess.

“She’s not breathing!” he shouted to no one.

He turned. He walked out.

He left me.

I forced myself into the vent. It scraped my skin raw, sliced my arms, burned my knees—but I kept crawling. I could hear the walls collapsing behind me, the fire consuming everything. My lungs screamed. My vision dimmed.

But then I saw it—light.

Grass.

I clawed my way out, fell into the cold dirt, coughing and covered in soot, but alive.

I saved myself.

And that? That would haunt him more than the fire ever could.

Thirty minutes later, after Anabelle was calmed down, Armand finally noticed I was missing.

Too late.

--

That night, I made it to the airport with Marco.

I coughed the whole damn time, wrapped in someone else’s coat, and I reeked of smoke and gasoline.

I dropped a package at the counter.

And we boarded the next flight out to the UK. Right before takeoff, my phone buzzed. A message from Armand.

[I don’t have time to play hide and seek, Harriet.]

Neither do I.

[Anabelle’s got her check-up tomorrow at ten. Go with us. And get your lungs looked at while you're there.]

Armand… from this moment on, we’re done. You’ll never ever see me again.

I didn’t bother replying.

I popped the SIM card out, snapped it and threw it away.