The Wife He Tried to Erase

Griffith POV:

The world was a kaleidoscope of soft colors and gentle whispers. Adelia' s laughter, light and melodic, filled my ears. We were young again, sitting on a park bench, sharing an ice cream. Her hand was in mine, her eyes sparkling with adoration. "I love you, Griffith," she whispered, her voice full of an innocent devotion. "Forever."

I woke with a jolt, the image of her face still vivid, only to be met by the harsh reality of Beryl' s heavily made-up face inches from mine. She was smiling, her eyes bright with a possessive glee. We were in my bed. My head throbbed. The phantom taste of her laughter still lingered on my tongue, now replaced by the bitter tang of regret.

"Darling," Beryl purred, tracing my jawline. "You were calling out for someone. Adelia, I think?" She chuckled, a mocking sound. "Even in your sleep, you can't resist her drama, can you?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. Adelia. Dead. Because of me. Because of this woman. A wave of pure, unadulterated rage, unlike anything I had ever felt, surged through me.

"Get out," I snarled, my voice raw.

Beryl' s smile faltered. "Darling? What's wrong?" She tried to touch me again.

I shoved her hand away. "I said, get out! Get out of my bed! Get out of my house! Get out of my life!" My voice rose to a roar. "You! You killed her! You told me she was playing games! You made me ignore her! You sent her to her death!"

Beryl scrambled backward, her eyes wide with fear. "Griffith, no! Don't be ridiculous! She was a pathetic orphan! She brought it on herself! You know how I feel about her. She was always trying to come between us!"

"Don't you dare speak her name!" I lunged, grabbing her arm, my fingers digging into her flesh. "She was worth a thousand of you, you narcissistic witch! She was pure! She was good! And you destroyed her! You convinced me to destroy her!"

Beryl whimpered, trying to pull away. "Griffith, stop! You're hurting me! It wasn't my fault! It was those drug dealers! You can't blame me for that!"

I released her, pushing her violently onto the floor. She landed with a yelp, her carefully applied makeup smudged. "No," I breathed, my chest heaving. "I won't let you die so easily. That would be too kind." My eyes hardened, a cold, calculated fury taking over. "You will suffer. You will understand what it means to be a 'muse of primal reality.' You will become the art."

I locked myself in my study, the world outside turning into a meaningless blur. Bottles of expensive whiskey lined my desk, quickly emptied. Days bled into nights. Her face, her innocent smile, her trusting eyes-they haunted me. Every memory was a fresh stab.

I remembered the early days. We had nothing, just our love. We ate ramen, shared a tiny apartment, but we were happy. She never complained. She worked tirelessly, supporting my nascent tech startup, believing in me when no one else did. She was my light, my anchor, my home. And I had traded her for a pretentious, selfish illusion.

She always put me first. Always. My career, my dreams, my comfort. She sacrificed everything. And what did I do? I called her low-class. I called her boring. I called her a stepping stone. I made her watch me with another woman. I forced her to abort our child. I let her die.

A knock on the door. My assistant, looking wary. "Mr. Wyatt, I have some papers the police sent over. Mrs. Wyatt's... effects."

I snatched them, my hands shaking. A death certificate. And a medical report. My eyes scanned the words. Cerebral hematoma. Risk of complete memory loss within two weeks.

Memory loss. The words hit me like a sledgehammer. My stomach clenched. That phone call. The day I shut her down. It's bad, the doctor said... I had dismissed her. I had hung up. She was trying to tell me she was losing her memories. My memories. Our memories. And I had been too busy with Beryl, too caught up in my own self-importance, to listen.

I remembered the torn pieces of paper on the floor of the gallery. Her ripped-up diagnosis. She had been trying to tell me. Telling me she was losing herself. And I had ignored her. I had dismissed her. I had chosen Beryl.

Sleep was a distant memory. The only escape was the oblivion of alcohol, or the hazy numbness of sleeping pills. Even then, her face haunted my dreams.

One afternoon, a desperate, irrational impulse seized me. I drove back to the orphanage. The place Adelia loved so much. The place I had threatened to destroy. Mrs. Albright, the director, greeted me with a hesitant smile.

"Mr. Wyatt," she said, her voice laced with surprise. "It's been a long time. Thank you again for all your generous donations over the years."

Donations? I hadn't donated anything. I paid her salary, but it wasn't a direct donation to the orphanage. I looked at the ledger she pushed across the table. Familiar entries. My name, next to substantial sums. And then, at the bottom, a familiar signature. Adelia's. She had been donating to the orphanage, under my name, for years. Every penny she managed to save, every little bonus I gave her. All of it went to these children. To her "home."

"She was such a good girl," Mrs. Albright continued, oblivious to my turmoil. "Always thinking of others. It was such a shame, what happened. Such a disgrace. Bringing such shame to our institution. We had to cut ties with her. Her reputation, you know. 'Postpartum Reality.' A naked exhibition. It was all so... shameful." She shook her head.

"Shameful?" My voice was low, dangerous. "She was the most honorable person I knew. She sacrificed everything to help these children. She was used! She was betrayed!"

Mrs. Albright flinched, stepping back. "Mr. Wyatt, I understand you're grieving, but you can't defend that kind of behavior."

I slammed my fist onto the table. "You all judged her! You all cast her out! You have no idea what she went through!" My voice cracked. "She endured unimaginable pain. She was stripped of everything. Her dignity, her child, her memory. All for 'art,' for a monster's ego! And you call her shameful? She was a saint!"

I walked out, my chest heaving, my heart a raw, bleeding wound. She had given so much. And received so little. She loved that orphanage. And I had threatened to destroy it. I had let her be called shameful. I had let her die.

Outside, a tree, old and gnarled, stood sentinel. I slammed my fist into its bark, again and again, until my knuckles were bloody pulp. The pain was a distant hum compared to the agony in my soul. I welcomed it. It was all I deserved.

My assistant found me there, his face ashen. "Mr. Wyatt, the police. They found the drug dealers. They confessed. And they mentioned... Beryl Aguirre. Her assistant. She was the one who tipped them off about Mrs. Wyatt's movements. She paid them to... eliminate her."

The world spun. Beryl. Her assistant. It wasn't just a random act of violence. It was a calculated murder. Orchestrated by the woman I had chosen. The woman I had protected. The woman I had loved. The woman I had sacrificed Adelia for.