My heart started pounding so hard I thought he could hear it.
I didn't think. I acted.
I turned toward him with the diary still clutched in my hands, let my face crumple, let tears rush to my eyes before fear could betray me.
"I was jealous," I said, voice breaking at exactly the right places. "I didn't mean to snoop, I just—" I laughed weakly, wiping at my cheeks like I was ashamed of myself. "I don't understand why you married her… and then me. I don't understand where I fit."
He didn't move. He just watched.
So I stepped closer, deliberately smaller, deliberately fragile.
"I know I shouldn't care," I went on, letting my shoulders shake. "I'm in your house now. I'm involved with you. I should be oblivious to the past, right? That's what a good wife does." I lowered my eyes. "I'm sorry. I let my insecurity get the better of me."
The tears kept coming—but they weren't jealousy. They were strategy.
Because now that I was here, now that I wore his name and slept in his bed, digging deeper was easier than ever.
He took the diary from my hands slowly, his thumb brushing my knuckles. His expression softened—too smoothly, like a mask settling back into place.
"You're jealous?" he asked gently.
I nodded, biting my lip, humiliation perfectly rehearsed. "Wouldn't you be?"
For a moment, something sharp flickered behind his eyes—calculation, not comfort. Then he pulled me into his chest, one hand cradling the back of my head.
"She doesn't matter," he murmured into my hair. "You do."
I sobbed against him, clinging tightly.
He believed the lie.
And as he held me, whispering reassurances, I made a promise to myself through the tears:
I would survive him.
And I would learn everything he was hiding–
even if it killed me.
__________
The next morning, I pretended nothing had changed.
I ate breakfast quietly, nodded when the butler spoke, smiled when Aiden kissed my forehead before leaving for work. The moment his car disappeared beyond the gates, the house felt different—too quiet, like it was holding its breath.
I started small.
I went to the study first, because men like him always keep trophies in plain sight, disguised as order. I searched the shelves, running my fingers along spines, looking for dust patterns. One space was cleaner than the rest, the wood beneath lighter—as if a book had been removed recently and never returned.
Not taken. Removed.
I opened drawers next. Receipts. Old keys. A bundle of documents tied with twine. Marriage certificates—mine was there. Neatly filed.
Hers was not.
That made my stomach tighten.
I moved to the hallway where the photographs were hung. I counted them this time. There was a strange gap between two frames, the nails still there, slightly bent. Something had been taken down in a hurry. I touched the wall. The paint felt newer there.
Covering something up.
I went upstairs next, to the locked wing he'd claimed was under renovation. The smell hit me before anything else—cleaning chemicals, sharp and overwhelming. Bleach. Too much of it.
Renovations didn't need that much bleach.
Through the half-open door, I saw the floorboards—new ones fitted unevenly, not sanded properly. One plank near the corner was darker than the rest, as if something had soaked deep before being sealed away.
I swallowed hard.
Outside, I questioned the gardener casually, asking about the former lady of the house. I knew they would lie but It could help me with collecting clues.His hands shook as he trimmed the hedge.
"She… left, madam," he said too quickly, eyes fixed on the ground.
"Left where?" I asked.
Silence.
Then, barely audible: "People don't leave without luggage."
That sentence echoed in my head long after he walked away.
By afternoon, I sat in my room, pulse racing, staring at my phone. I searched her name online again. Still nothing. No interviews. No social media. No divorce filings.
No obituary either.
It was as if she had been erased.
That was when I understood—
something hadn't just gone wrong.
Something had been deliberately made to disappear.
And if I wasn't careful…
I might be next.
_______
I waited until night.
The house changed after dark—sounds carried farther, shadows stretched longer, and every instinct in me screamed to be careful. Still, fear wouldn't save me. Information might.
I started in the bedroom that had once been hers.
Aiden had said it was converted into storage, but that was another lie. The room was too clean, too untouched. I checked the wardrobe first. Empty hangers, aligned with obsessive precision. But when I pressed against the back panel, it shifted slightly.
My breath hitched.
I pushed harder. The panel slid aside just enough to reveal a narrow hollow space. Inside, wrapped in an old silk scarf, was a phone.
Dead. Scratched. Old model.
My hands trembled as I hid it back exactly the way I found it. That alone was dangerous enough—but it meant one thing clearly:
She had been hiding things too.
I moved on.
In the library, I checked the books again, this time more carefully. One title caught my eye—A Study of Saints and Martyrs. It didn't belong among the financial reports and classical literature. When I pulled it out, a folded paper slipped from between the pages.
A handwritten note.
Not recent. Ink slightly faded.
If anything happens to me, look where vows are broken, not made.
My heart began to race.
Vows.
The church.
Their wedding photo flashed in my mind—the crowded church, the smiles, the witnesses. Unlike mine.
I searched his desk next, methodically. False bottoms. Hidden compartments. Finally, behind a drawer lining, I found a USB drive taped crudely in place.
No label.
That scared me the most.
Before I could plug it in, I heard footsteps in the hallway. I froze, hid the drive inside my sleeve, and sat on the bed just as the door creaked open.
Aiden glanced at me, eyes sharp, assessing.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked.
I shook my head lightly. "Just wandering."
He watched me for a long second… then smiled.
When he left, I exhaled shakily.
That night, lying beside him, I stared at the ceiling, the weight of the USB burning against my skin.
For the first time since marrying him, I felt something shift.
I wasn't just surviving anymore.
I had a trail.
And trails—if followed carefully—always led to the truth.