Wife Uncovered His Murderous Affair

"Lucca," I whispered, my voice breaking as I clutched my suitcase closer. "I need to tell you something. It's about your parents—"

"Oh my God." Blaire's laughter cut through the air like broken glass. She stood up from the couch, Lucca's shirt falling to mid-thigh as she surveyed me with undisguised amusement. "Look at this, darling. She's even more pathetic than you described."

My cheeks burned as her eyes raked over my wrinkled jeans and travel-stained sweater. "Those clothes look like they came from a thrift store dumpster. And that hair—when was the last time you saw a salon? Or a mirror?"

I waited for Lucca to defend me, to tell her to stop. Instead, he leaned back into the leather cushions, his face a mask of cold indifference. The man who once told me I was beautiful in pajamas and messy hair now watched his mistress tear me apart without a flicker of recognition.

"Lucca, please." I took a step forward, my hands shaking. "There was a fire. Your parents—they're gone."

His jaw tightened, but not with grief. With irritation. "Kate, whatever game you're playing, it's over. Our marriage was a mistake from a different life. I've moved on, and you need to do the same."

"This isn't a game!" The words tore from my throat. "Sarah and Michael are dead. The house burned down three days ago. I've been trying to reach you, but you wouldn't answer my calls—"

"Because I don't want to talk to you." He stood, adjusting his tie with the same careful precision he'd once used to straighten my necklaces. "You're lying to manipulate me back into that dead-end marriage. It's desperate, even for you."

Blaire clapped her hands together, delighted. "Oh, this is rich. She's actually trying to fake a family tragedy. How wonderfully tragic and manipulative."

The room spun around me. This couldn't be happening. This cold stranger couldn't be the same man who'd held me through thunderstorms, who'd promised to love me until his last breath.

"Get her out of here," Blaire said, snapping her fingers. "I can't stand looking at her anymore. She's making the whole place smell like... poverty."

Two men in dark suits materialized from somewhere behind me—bodyguards I hadn't even noticed. Their hands closed around my arms with practiced efficiency.

"Wait!" I struggled against their grip, my suitcase slipping from my fingers and hitting the marble floor with a sickening crack. One of the urns tumbled out, the ceramic shattering into pieces. Gray ash spilled across the pristine white marble like a accusation.

Blaire's eyes lit up with malicious glee. "Oh my God, what is that? Did you bring party favors? Is that cocaine?" She pulled out her phone, already angling for the perfect shot. "This is too good."

"No, no, no." I dropped to my knees, my hands scrambling to gather the ashes—pieces of Sarah Taylor, the woman who'd taught me to make her famous apple pie, who'd called me daughter. "These are his parents. This is Sarah—"

For just a moment, Lucca's mask slipped. His face went white, his eyes widening as he stared at the gray dust coating my palms. But then Blaire leaned close, whispering something in his ear, her red lips brushing against his skin like a snake's kiss.

His expression hardened again, colder than before. "My parents would never have died in some fire. You're clearly unstable." He reached into my suitcase and pulled out the second urn—Michael's urn. "This is probably just fireplace ash from some scam you're running."

"Lucca, no—" But he was already walking toward the kitchen, Blaire following behind him like a predator savoring the kill.

I watched in horror as my husband—the man I'd loved since I was sixteen—lifted the lid of the trash bin and dumped Michael Taylor's ashes inside like garbage. The ceramic urn clattered against the metal bottom with a sound that echoed through my soul.

"Perfect," Blaire purred, snapping photos of me on my knees, surrounded by ash. "This is going straight to Instagram. 'When the help gets a little too familiar.' The caption practically writes itself."

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. I was still trying to gather Sarah's remains when the bodyguards hauled me to my feet, their fingers digging into my arms hard enough to bruise.

"Get her out," Lucca said without looking at me. "And make sure she doesn't come back."

They dragged me toward the door, my feet barely touching the ground. I twisted in their grip, desperate for one last look at the man I'd married, but he'd already turned away, wrapping his arms around Blaire as if nothing had happened.

The elevator doors closed on the sound of her laughter, and then I was falling—down, down, down—until the bodyguards shoved me onto the sidewalk like trash themselves.

I hit the pavement hard, my knees scraping against concrete. Above me, the gleaming tower stretched toward the sky, and somewhere in its heights, the ashes of the people who'd loved me most were rotting in a garbage bin.

I tucked my hair behind my ear with trembling fingers, a gesture that felt like a relic from another life. The woman who'd done that this morning—the woman who'd believed in love and loyalty and the goodness of the man she'd married—was as dead as the ashes scattered across that marble floor.