Elaine Moore had a dream. In it, Liam Bennett stood quietly in front of her, a faint smile on his lips. His features were a little blurry, almost softened by the dream, and just as she reached out to grab his hand, he stepped back. His figure turned translucent, then slowly vanished. Tears welled up uncontrollably and streamed down her face…
“Bang! Bang! Bang!”
Heavy kicks rattled the front door, growing louder and more urgent.
She fumbled to switch on the bedside lamp, blinking blearily at the sudden light. Her gaze swept past the wall covered in Fiona Collins’ photos—all of them with that gentle smile, but Elaine knew exactly who that woman had been smiling at.
The time on her phone read 1 a.m. She got up, threw on a cozy knit cardigan, and padded toward the door.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out the one kicking the door was Ethan White. He must’ve been out partying again, probably with another scantily clad beauty hanging off his arm. He had a key, but never used it. No matter how late it was, it was always Elaine who opened the door.
Elaine walked downstairs, flicked on the lights in the living room, crossed the chilly courtyard, and headed for the main gate. The winter air bit at her skin and she sniffled, half-sure she was catching a cold.
The heavy door shook under the constant pounding. It was a solid one, had taken Ethan’s tantrums for nearly three years, and still stood strong.
Good thing their villa was nestled on a hill with no neighbors around. Otherwise, these midnight door slams would've woken up the whole block.
She unlatched the door.
Ethan stood there—his handsome, almost unreal face twisted under the dim porch light. Clinging to him was a woman wearing more skin than fabric, eyeing Elaine like she’d already won the game.
Elaine had seen plenty of Ethan’s women come and go, so she didn’t even acknowledge the smug look. She just waited silently, ready to close the door once he stepped inside.
But Ethan didn’t walk in immediately.
He just stood there, staring at her with that sharp, unreadable gaze of his. Not a word.
Elaine forced her stiff face into a thin, polite smile. She gave a slight bow—habitual movements she'd done a thousand times by now—as if welcoming him home.
“You dead or what? Took you long enough to open the damn door,” Ethan finally said, his voice low and laced with ice."......"
If I were really dead, I sure as hell wouldn’t be the one opening the damn door...
He always blew up over nothing, and she'd learned the hard way—staying quiet was better. No matter what she said, he'd just lash out anyway.
"Seriously? I'm not even dead yet, and you’re already acting like I kicked the bucket?" Ethan White seemed extra irritable today. The redness in Elaine Moore’s eyes made it obvious she’d been crying, which only made him more pissed. He snapped at her.
Elaine chuckled inwardly. If he actually dropped dead, she wouldn't shed a single tear. She'd be too busy laughing her way into a new marriage… the faster the better.
"I'm talking to you. You deaf or just pretending?" Ethan's voice rose again. He always blew a fuse when she put on that look—calm, nothing-can-touch-me. It drove him nuts, like he wanted to rip that mask off her face just to see if there was anything else underneath.
"No," Elaine replied quietly, not looking up.
"No, what?" Ethan barked as his glare cut into her like a knife.
"......"
"Ethan, babe, I'm freezing! I’m starving too. Can we puh-lease go inside now?" The girl hanging off his arm—Emily Hollis—whined sweetly. Dressed in a skimpy dress in the dead of winter, she was shivering like a leaf. If they didn’t go in soon, she’d probably turn into an ice cube.
"Yeah, let’s head in," Ethan finally cooled down. Maybe seeing her shiver made him feel something. He peeled off his jacket and wrapped it around Emily’s shoulders before pulling her in closer, stepping into the house with her.
As they passed Elaine, Emily shot her a gloating glance, her lips curled like she’d just won a prize. Ethan didn’t bother looking at Elaine—just kicked her hard in the shin as he brushed past, eyes full of rage.
She stumbled back, pain shooting up her leg as she bent down to clutch it. Still, she said nothing, her face blank. But deep down, something twisted.
Right. Today was Fiona Collins' death anniversary—three years now. Weird he hadn’t dragged her along to the grave this time just to humiliate her again like he used to.
Then again, this ‘Emily’ girl did look kinda like Fiona. No wonder Ethan was into her. Honestly, every single woman he brought home looked a bit like Fiona in one way or another.
Such a devoted husband. What a joke.
