The Wife He Tried to Erase

Adelia POV:

A rough mattress, the smell of dust, and the insistent chirping of an alarm clock. I blinked, disoriented, the memory of the live broadcast a hazy nightmare. I had been out for a full day and night. The calendar on the wall screamed at me: October 26th. My parents' death anniversary. A fresh wave of grief, mixed with the ever-present ache of my lost child, washed over me.

My phone, lying on the bedside table, glowed with dozens of notifications. I picked it up, my fingers trembling. News alerts. Social media. The headlines screamed: "Adelia Figueroa, the 'Stillbirth Artist's Muse,' Revealed to be Orphan with Troubled Past." My parents' names, their tragic accident, my years in the foster system-all laid bare. Twisted. Sensationalized. My childhood, my only sanctuary of memory, desecrated.

Adelia Figueroa, an orphan who manipulated her way into wealth.

Her parents' deaths, a convenient tragedy.

A history of instability, now manifesting in 'artistic' depravity.

He had done this. Griffith. After he forced me to lie, he dug up my past. Not for "art," but to deflect the backlash from Beryl's monstrous exhibit. To shift the narrative. To make me the villain. My heart, already a barren wasteland, found a new depth of coldness. There was nothing sacred to him. Nothing.

I walked downstairs, my legs stiff, my body still aching. The grand living room, once filled with the promise of a shared future, was now a stage for his betrayal. Griffith sat on the plush sofa, Beryl draped across his lap, their bodies intertwined. He stroked her hair, whispering endearments. They looked like a picture of domestic bliss, a cruel parody of what I had once craved.

"Griffith," I said, my voice flat, devoid of any emotion. I saw him flinch, his head snapping up. Beryl recoiled, her eyes darting between us. "Was exposing my past, my parents, my childhood, necessary for your 'art'?"

He stood, gently easing Beryl off his lap. His eyes, for a fleeting second, held a flicker of something that looked like guilt. "Adelia, darling," he began, but the endearment felt like a knife. "It was... a necessary evil. To control the narrative. You understand, don't you?"

"I understand," I said, my gaze steady, unwavering. "I understand that you have systematically destroyed every part of me. My dignity. My body. My child. My past. My future." I took a step closer. "And I understand that I no longer love you. Not one single bit."

His face paled. The flicker of guilt vanished, replaced by a deep, troubled frown. But before he could respond, Beryl, ever the opportunist, tugged at his arm. She whispered something in his ear. He looked at me again, then at her, and then, without a word, he swept Beryl into his arms and carried her into their bedroom. The door clicked shut.

A moment later, muffled moans and the creak of the bed reached my ears. The sound was like a final nail in the coffin of my heart. My own bedroom was right next door. He was doing this to mock me. To prove his contempt.

I let out a soft, humorless laugh, a sound that scratched my throat. "No, Griffith," I whispered to the closed door, to the man who was no longer there. "You didn't just kill my love. You killed me. And now, I am free."

The next morning, Griffith walked into the dining room, looking surprisingly fresh. "Adelia," he said, trying for a conciliatory tone. "It's your parents' anniversary, isn't it? I'll drive you to the cemetery."

But before I could answer, Beryl, now dressed in a flowing silk robe, emerged from the bedroom. "Darling, what are you talking about?" she pouted, clinging to his arm. "We have that brunch with the critics. You promised."

Griffith hesitated, glancing between us. "Adelia, Beryl. Can't we rearrange? This is important."

"Absolutely not!" Beryl declared, her voice firm. "My career depends on this. You know that." She shot me a smug look.

Griffith sighed, running a hand through his hair. He looked at me, a shrug of resignation on his face. "I suppose you'll have to go alone, Adelia. I have commitments."

"Of course," I said, my voice flat. I didn't expect anything less.

I drove to the Martyrs' Cemetery, a quiet, solemn place overlooking the Hudson River. Snowflakes, the first of the season, began to fall, dusting the gravestones with white. I found my parents' names, carved into the cold marble. I laid a bouquet of white lilies, their petals already beginning to droop in the chill.

"Mom, Dad," I whispered, my voice thick with unshed tears. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I haven't been strong enough. I'm so sorry for the shame he brought upon your names. I tried to make you proud."

A sudden rustling in the bushes nearby startled me. I looked up. Three burly men, faces hardened, emerged from behind a row of trees. They wore black hoodies, their expressions menacing. My heart leaped into my throat.

"Can I help you?" I asked, trying to sound braver than I felt.

They didn't answer. One of them pulled out a phone, a grim smile on his face. "Seems like someone wants a word with you, Mrs. Wyatt."

My hand instinctively reached for my purse, fumbling for my phone. I needed to call someone. Anyone. I pressed the speed dial for Griffith, the only number I knew by heart.

"Griffith! Help me!" I screamed into the phone. "I'm at the cemetery! There are men-"

A heavy fist connected with my jaw. Stars exploded behind my eyes. My phone clattered to the ground. Darkness swallowed me whole. But not before I heard a familiar, malicious voice. Beryl's. "Finally, the orphan gets what she deserves."

I woke up to the smell of salt and rust. My head throbbed. My hands and feet were bound. I was hanging precariously from a thick rope, suspended over choppy, dark water. The waves crashed against the rocks below, a hungry growl. We were on a cliff, overlooking the sea.

One of the men, his face scarred, stepped into my view. "Looks like you had some rich enemies, lady," he sneered. "We've been waiting a long time for this. Fifteen years, to be exact."

Fifteen years? What did that mean? My mind raced, trying to connect the dots.

"But hey," another man chimed in, "business is business. We were told to make one call. Your first contact. Who's it going to be, pretty lady?" He dangled my phone in front of me.

My mind went blank. Griffith. He was the only one. My husband. The father of my child. Even after everything, a tiny, desperate part of me hoped he would come.

The phone rang. It was Griffith's voice. "Adelia? What is it now? I'm busy."

"Griffith," I cried, my voice trembling, "I've been kidnapped! They're going to kill me! Please! Help me!"

A muffled giggle. Then Beryl' s voice, clear as day. "Oh, Griffith, darling, is your 'muse' playing games again? Tell her to stop calling. We're having such a lovely time."

My blood ran cold. He was with her. Again. He hadn't even hesitated.

"Adelia, stop this nonsense," Griffith said, his voice laced with annoyance. "This isn't funny. I'm hanging up."

A click. He hung up. My heart shattered into irreparable pieces. He truly didn't care. He truly believed I was playing games. The men around me burst into mocking laughter.

"Looks like your rich husband doesn't care much, huh?" the scarred man jeered. "What a shame."

"Was this Beryl's idea?" I asked, my voice surprisingly steady. "Did she send you?"

The scarred man grinned, showing a mouthful of rotting teeth. "Smart girl. Let's just say a certain 'artist' has a very specific vision for your grand finale. She paid us well."

"No!" I screamed, a primal sound of despair.

The scarred man cut the rope.

I plunged into the icy depths, the cold water wrapping around me like a shroud. My lungs burned. The darkness of the sea was absolute. As I struggled, a kaleidoscope of images flashed through my mind: Griffith's smile, his promises, our first dance. Then, his face at the gallery, approving of my humiliation. His words, "She means nothing to me anymore."

No. Not nothing. Less than nothing. I had been a pawn. A sacrifice. My love, my life, my child-all collateral damage in his twisted game of ambition and art.

My last thought, as the water filled my lungs, was a silent, defiant vow. I would not die his victim. I would not be defined by his cruelty. And the memories of him, the man who murdered my child, would be the first to go.

The sea swallowed me whole.