Chapter Six

Amina. 

Grief has a way of making men weak.

And Jake Donovan was crumbling by the minute.

I step into Kyla’s house, my house now, though no one dares say it out loud with an armful of freshly baked pastries and a face softened by sympathy. I’ve perfected the look in the mirror: red rimmed eyes, slightly swollen, lips pressed just enough to quiver like I’ve cried all night.

“Oh Jake,” I whisper the moment I see him sitting on the couch, unshaven, hunched over with that lost expression etched across his handsome face. “You look… broken.”

He doesn’t speak at first. Just lifts his eyes to me haunted, hollow. His pain is intoxicating.

Delicious.

“I brought those almond scones you like,” I say gently, walking into the kitchen and placing them on the counter, deliberately next to her pregnancy test. Still there. Still glaringly positive.

I study it for a moment, letting the irony wash over me. All it took was one little test to trigger the chain of events I so carefully orchestrated. But no one suspected *me.* Not sweet, kind, loyal Amina, the sister who rushed to help. The one who stood by his side while the world mourned Kyla.

If only he knew.

If only he could know.

But Jake is too wrapped up in grief to see the cracks I carved with precision.

The faked moans.

The distorted audio.

The manipulated phone recordings she was never meant to survive.

She always thought she was smarter than me. Prettier. More worthy. And Jake? He bought into that fantasy like the perfect little lapdog. She had everything I wanted his ring, his house, his name. And she never even knew how easy it was for me to take it all.

I turn back to him, sighing softly. “I still can’t believe she’s gone…”

He runs a hand through his messy hair. “I keep expecting her to come through the door.”

“She won’t.” I cross the room, kneeling beside him. “And I’m so sorry for saying that, Jake. But you have to start letting go. You’re not doing yourself any favors by living like this.”

His eyes flicker to mine, and I give him the look again. That soft, tender expression I’ve used on men since I was sixteen. The look that says: I see your pain, and I want to heal it.

“I don’t know how,” he whispers.

I place my hand gently on his knee. “Then let me help you.”

He doesn’t flinch.

Progress.

In the days since the case was closed and the town moved on, I’ve been subtly making myself indispensable bringing food, tidying the house, sorting through Kyla’s things while pretending to tear up. I even planted the idea with the detective that maybe Kyla had been a little unstable. 

“It’s always the happy ones, you know?” I’d said, voice trembling. “You’d never suspect them. But sometimes I caught her staring out at the river for hours”

What a show that was.

Now, even Jake believes it. He thinks she cracked under the pressure of pregnancy. That the joy was too much. That she wandered into the river because her mind couldn’t handle the shift.

Poor, sweet Kyla.

She never saw me coming.

“Stay here,” Jake says suddenly, dragging me out of my thoughts.

My chest tightens with delight, but I keep my face neutral.

“Are you sure?” I ask softly.

“Yeah.” He nods slowly. “I mean, I don’t think I can… be alone anymore. Not in this house.”

I reach up and brush a stray curl from his forehead. “You don’t have to be.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, leaning into my touch like a man starved for affection. This is what grief does, it strips people down to their most desperate selves. It makes them vulnerable. Moldable.

Mine.

That night, I sleep in Kyla’s old bed, our bed now with Jake just down the hall. I don’t push things. Not yet. Timing is everything, and I’ve already waited this long. Letting him come to me will make it all the sweeter.

In the morning, I make breakfast. I wear one of her silk robes. Not because I miss her but because I know the scent is still embedded in the fabric. Jake comes into the kitchen in a T-shirt and sweatpants, eyes bleary.

“Coffee?” I ask, already holding out the mug.

He accepts it wordlessly.

I let the silence simmer between us, humming under my breath soft, low. The same tune Kyla used to hum. I don’t miss the way his shoulders tense, just for a second.

Good.

Grief is easiest to manipulate when the wound is still fresh.

“You know,” I say after a moment, cracking eggs into a pan, “she would’ve wanted you to move on.”

He looks up sharply. “What?”

“I mean it,” I say gently. “Kyla would hate to see you like this. Drowning in guilt. In pain. She would’ve wanted you to live. To love again.”

He swallows hard, staring at his coffee.

“She loved you more than anything,” I continued, voice softening. “But she wouldn’t want to be the reason you waste the rest of your life.”

He doesn’t respond.

But he doesn’t deny it either.

Weeks pass, and slowly, Jake begins to depend on me.

We go for walks. We laugh, hesitantly at first, then freely. I bring home wine. He cooks. I wear her apron. We share glances. Little touches. Small things that slowly build a bridge between friendship and something deeper.

Then, one night, it happens.

He kisses me.

He’s drunk. Sad. Vulnerable.

But I let it happen.

I let him wrap his arms around me and bury his face in my neck, whispering apologies meant for her, promises meant for someone else. And I accept them. Every single one.

Because now, she’s gone.

And I’m the one who stayed.

The one who comforted him.

The one who loved him when the world fell apart.

It doesn’t matter that I was the architect of her ruin.

Because now, I’m his wife.

And no one will ever know.