After I made sure Margot and her parents were okay, I left and drove straight back to the estate It was almost two in the morning. My head was pounding. My temples were tight. I hadn’t eaten hadn’t slept, and every damn sound on the road pissed me off.
I checked my phone, expecting some pathetic messages from her–maybe another long–winded guilt trip, maybe a missed call or two. But nothing. No texts. No missed calls. No stupid emojis she always used to soften her words.
I dialed her number. Straight to voicemail.
No signal? Or did the bitch block me?
As I stepped into the hallway, the maids came running up to me like lost chickens.
“Sir–uh, we thought Madam Geneva was with you,” one of them stammered.
“She never came home after the hospital. We haven’t seen her.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “So where the hell is she now?”
They all flinched like I raised a damn gun. I waved them off. “She’s probably sulking in one of the guest houses or some shit.”
Geneva always had a flair for dramatics. She’d disappear for a night or two, then come crawling back with her stupid soup and soft eyes, thinking I’d melt. It worked before. Not this time.
I showered, collapsed in bed. Assumed she’d be home by morning.
She always comes back.
Right?
Next day, I woke up with a splitting headache, worse than the one last night. Usual. I didn’t say anything. Just threw on a shirt and headed down to the kitchen. The only thing that ever worked for migraines was her goddamn chicken mushroom soup. The one she made with those herbs from Sardinia. Shit was magic. Smelled like home.
I pulled out a chair and waited. Chef placed some bougie–looking shit in front of me.
I stared at it.
“What the fuck is this?”
“Your lunch, sir.”
“I didn’t ask for lunch. Where’s the soup?”
The chef looked nervous. “Madam Geneva… she hasn’t returned yet. We tried calling her but-”
“I don’t give a damn if she’s dancing naked on the moon. Where’s the soup?”
He gulped. “She used to order the herbs herself. Direct from Sardinia. We’ve run out.”
I picked up the plate and shoved it across the table. “It tastes like fucking ash.”
He scrambled to clean it.
I stormed out to the balcony. The sunlight made my head pound harder.
“Coffee!” I shouted.
12:49 pm
A maid came running with a silver tray. I took a sip.
Spit it out.
“What the fuck is this garbage?”
“It’s your usual blend, sir,” she said, voice shaking. “But Madam Geneva… she used beans from Ethiopia. She roasted them herself. The day she left… she threw out all of them.”
I stood still.
No sound. No scent of her shampoo. No noise from the piano she sometimes played when she thought no one was listening.
I walked to the master bedroom.
The vanity was bare.
Drawers, empty.
Closet… half gone. Her clothes. Her heels. Her signature red trench. All gone. Her jewelry box lay open on the bed. Stripped clean.
I stood there.
Then walked to her side of the closet. Stared at one of the silk scarves she left behind. The one
she wore when we first moved into this place. It still smelled like her perfume.
I held it. Didn’t move.
Then I reached for my phone and started calling. My men. Her friends. Her cousin. The doctor. The secretary. The damn driver. Every single one.
Nothing. No leads.
It hit me.
She didn’t vanish.
She escaped.
I stood in the middle of her closet, gripping that scarf like it owed me answers.
clenched my jaw so tight my teeth ached.
‘You think you can run from me, Geneva?” I said under my breath. “You’ll wish you died before trying.”
rush to the twins‘ room. Door creaks when I push it open. Fucking maids didn’t even bother cleaning. Dust on the windows, toys still scattered the way they were weeks ago. Eli’s tiny shoes by the bed. Elle’s stuffed bear face–down on the rug.
stand there for a second. Just breathing. Trying to convince myself I don’t give a shit.
Then I sit on Eli’s bed. The damn mattress still smells like baby soap. He used to drool on his pillows and Geneva would freak out about allergies. I used to laugh. Told her I was building them. to be strong.
My eyes land on something under the pillow.
I pull it out.
A photo album.
Handmade,
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12:49 pm Pppp.
I flip through it, each page heavier than the last. The twins hugging Geneva, big toothy smiles.
Elle drew stick figures. Me with a gun, her with a crown, Geneva in the middle holding both our
hands.
Another page.
Eli’s scribbles: “Papa’s strong! But Mama’s smarter!”
I feel something twist in my chest. Fucking kids.
I shut the album too fast, then open it again.
I don’t know what the hell I’m even looking for. Maybe a reason. Maybe proof I’m right.
Instead, I see her.
Geneva, smiling. Hair loose. Holding both of them in her lap. Her eyes looked tired, but happy Eli’s arms around her neck, Elle sticking her tongue out.
My jaw tightens. I grab the album and hurl it across the room.
It hits the wall and pages scatter all over. Photos fall to the floor. But one photo stays on th dresser, propped like it was waiting for me. That same goddamn smile of hers. That same look used to love. Now it just pisses me off.
I walk over. Stare at it for a second.
“That bitch,” I mutter.
“How fucking dare her…”
She lied. Over and over. Pretended she loved me. Built this little fantasy world just to tear i
down.
And Eli?
That was all for show. A fucking scare tactic. She said he died in the blast. But I planted tha ɔomb. I know exactly what I did. That wasn’t real. It was noise. Pressure. Just enough to shake ner, make her beg. Not to kill. I never wanted the twins hurt. But her? She needed to learn he
place.
She used that against me.
Made herself the victim.
Like always.
Told the world I was the monster when she was the one poisoning everything behind the scenes
Chaptera
