The Wife He Hated to Ash

I couldn't take his hatred anymore. It was a poison that had seeped into my bones, and the only antidote left was to end it all.

When the funeral director handed my ashes to Harris Clark, he cradled the urn for a moment. A slow, chilling smile—the only one he managed that day—spread across his face. "Finally," he whispered.

Then, his voice sharp with disgust, he spat out, "It's too filthy. She deserves to be wiped from this earth completely."

With a contemptuous flick of his wrist, he sent the urn crashing to the floor.

Of course he did. In his mind, I was responsible for the death of his one true love. He had stayed by my side for years, playing the part of a husband, all just to witness this final moment of my destruction.

He strode away over the dusty remains of what was once me. But soon after, in a twist of bitter irony, he was back at the funeral home, weeping and begging them to return my ashes.

After a full year of Harris's special brand of hell, I finally found a way out. I waited for a moment when his attention was elsewhere, slipped into the bathtub, and opened my wrists.

The water bloomed crimson, a horrifying echo of the day I lost our child. I'd miscarried from the sheer grief of discovering his real reason for marrying me.

"Good riddance!" Harris clapped his hands and let out a hollow laugh when he found me, his bright eyes burning with a frantic, bloodshot intensity. He laughed until the sound cracked and tears streamed down his face.

I knew he wasn't crying for me. He was thinking of Monarch Peaks, the love he'd lost six years ago in a car accident. The accident where I, the lucky survivor, had received her heart.

Harris was convinced the crash was no accident. He believed I had orchestrated it to steal Monarch's life, and her heart, for myself. So, he deliberately got close to me. After we married, the mask came off, and the torment began.