Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 156392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 782(@200wpm)___ 626(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 782(@200wpm)___ 626(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
He releases a long sigh that borders on both frustration and defeat. “I’ve known you since you were a child, and there has never been a time where I thought you to be impulsively irrational like you are right now. If you believe keeping her from getting proper help in a specialized institution is considered a form of protection, then you’re sorely mistaken. You’re merely delaying the inevitable, and not for the best. This will have a worse impact on her than the previous time and it’ll only end in disaster.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?” I snap. “Because I do. I’ve studied all of the possible outcomes and I’m well aware of the consequences.”
“You simply don’t care?”
“I simply do not want her locked up in an institution she loathes and distrusts. The last time we did that, she nearly took her own life.”
“She’s prone to attempting suicide even without the locking-up part.”
My jaw clenches and I have this urge to punch Henderson’s face and shut him up for eternity. But that would make my wife sad, considering the infuriating bond she’s formed with the man.
She’s often Leo this and Leo that, perfectly channeling the energy of an extrovert who’s adopted a clueless introvert.
So I shove him out of the way without inflicting bodily harm—for now. I swear to fuck, if he keeps spouting nonsense, I’ll expel him to the moon.
My steps are slow and I sway and then grab onto the wall for balance. Apparently, I need more caffeine.
Sam and Henderson would say I need rest.
My ears prickle at the faint sound of the cello coming from the media room where Ava usually practices. It’s high-pitched and lacks the usual elegance my wife is known for in the music scene.
If anything, it’s intense and jolting, filling the space with a cloak of danger and urgency.
My muscles tighten as I hurry in that direction. While I don’t get alarmed at the melodies of the cello lately, this sound is a horrifying reminder of a not-so-distant version of my wife.
I grab the knob and turn, holding out hope that I’m overthinking.
The door creaks open, the noise clashing with the desperate notes of music.
My wife is perched on a chair, surrounded by a dangerous sea of shattered remnants of the glass coffee table. Crimson trails slice across her bare feet and the fronts of her legs, as though she crawled through the shards before standing on them. She continues to play her symphony of death with bleeding fingers, the bow and strings serving as instruments for her psychosis.
Each drop of blood stains the once-pristine rug and leaves deep-red splatters on the broken screen of her phone and her light-pink dress. Even her tousled hair is marred by streaks of crimson.
Blood surrounds us, a vivid and jarring reminder of the chaos I selfishly thrust us into.
I walk toward her slowly in an attempt to keep from startling her while suppressing my need to jog, to run, to remove her from the hazardous situation.
The glass crunches beneath my shoes until I stop in front of her and call in a firm voice over the music, “Ava?”
Her bow comes to an abrupt halt and her fingers freeze on the tuning pegs. Slowly, she lifts her head and stares up at me with eyes both vacant and enraged. They look lost, but they also brim with a hot red edge.
Tension crackles and blisters in the air as we maintain eye contact. Me, because I’m trying to identify if she’s coming off one of her episodes.
Her…I have no clue. She looks at me with a depressing fear I never thought I’d see on her face again.
“Is everything all right?” I step forward and lift a hand to touch her, check her pulse, and make sure it’s beating normally.
Ava jerks back, and the cello falls from her hand and crashes against the shattered glass. Her chair scrapes the pieces and tilts under her weight but she doesn’t fall.
“Don’t touch me,” she says with enough bitterness to send my hackles up.
To avoid alarming her, I remain in place and shove a hand in my pocket, summoning my most gentle tone. “What’s the issue?”
“You lied to me. All this time, you’ve been lying to me.” Moisture clings to her lids as red covers her cheek.
“Concerning what?” I say calmly.
“Everything!” she yells, her voice cracking. “You lied about our marriage of convenience. The reason behind it wasn’t so we’d benefit each other. You forced me to tie the knot so you could make sure I kept your murder a secret. You threatened to take me down with you as an accomplice if I didn’t comply with your proposal.”
Fuck.
Fucking hell.
A muscle tightens in my jaw as the wall I carefully built around my wife crumbles to the ground in one blistering go.