Chapter Four – The Perfect Husband Act[Part 2]

He was cataloging every tiny movement. Every direction my eyes flicked, every time, my hand found something too cleanly.

He might not know what I’d seen.

But he already suspected something.

“Cut,” the producer called after a few more softball questions. “That was fantastic. We’ll grab a few B‑roll shots of Alexander guiding Clara through her morning routine, and then we’ll be out of your hair.”

“Of course,” Alexander said smoothly. “Anything to help.”

The next ten minutes were a choreographed dance.

He “helped” me pour coffee. Held my elbow as I walked the three steps from the island to the sink. Put his hand on my back as I turned to sit, like the camera wouldn’t see me land perfectly on the stool if he didn’t direct me.

I let him.

I even “missed” the mug handle once, fingers landing just beside it before correcting. The cameraman murmured something appreciative about “authentic moments.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Elara hovering in the doorway to the hall, arms folded around herself, and robe traded for a tasteful blouse and jeans. Her hair was brushed now. There are no visible marks on her throat.

Her gaze slid over me like always: the fond, almost‑sisterly warmth she’d cultivated for three years.

But now I saw the things under it. The quick, skittering glances toward Alexander. The way she tracked where his hands rested. The pinch at the corners of her mouth when I leaned into his side for the camera.

Girl next door. Cousin. Support system.

Usurper.

“I think we’re good,” the producer said at last. “Thank you both again. This is going to mean so much to viewers.”

“Thank you,” I replied, handing the coffee mug back carefully. “If it helps one person feel less alone, it’s worth it.”

She beamed, then turned to talk logistics with her team. The cameraman started packing up. The lighting rig came down.

As soon as the last cable cleared the doorway, Alexander’s arm loosened from around my shoulders.

“Why don’t you rest in the bedroom for a bit?” he said. “All this stimulation can’t be good for your recovery.”

“I’m fine here,” I countered mildly. “I like the light.”

His eyes narrowed just a fraction.

Elara spoke before he could.

“You should listen to him, Clara,” she said gently, stepping into the room. “I read that after this kind of surgery, too much strain too soon can cause regression. We don’t want that, do we?”

We.

I turned my head slightly in her direction, letting my gaze stop just shy of her face.

“I appreciate your concern,” I said. “Both of you.”

She flinched. Just enough that someone who couldn’t see would’ve missed it.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said quickly—too quickly. “You know I only want what’s best for you.”

You didn’t walk into a wall.

You walked straight into my marriage.

“Maybe a short nap,” I amended. “My head is… a little swimmy.”

Alexander relaxed, fractionally. “I’ll walk you.”

“I’ve got her,” Elara blurted.

Both of us looked at her.

She pasted on a smile. “You’ve already missed that board thing this morning. Go make sure the world doesn’t fall apart without you. I can handle getting my cousin to bed.”

His jaw ticked. For a second, I thought he’d argue. But then the mask slid back into place.

“Text me if she feels any pain,” he told Elara. Then, to me, “I’ll be back in an hour. Two at most.”

He bent to kiss my forehead, lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary, probably for any cameras that might still be rolling.

Then he was gone, footsteps fading down the hall, elevator doors closing with a soft chime.

Silence.

Elara and I stood facing each other a few feet apart in the gleaming living room.

I could feel her stare. Feel the weight of everything neither of us could say.

“You must be exhausted,” she said finally, stepping toward me, voice soft. “Come on, I’ll get you settled.”

She reached for my elbow, the way she always had. Familiar. Automatic.

This time, I let her touch land on air.

Her fingers closed on nothing. Her eyes widened a fraction as my hand found the back of the sofa on the first try, steady as if I’d seen it.

A beat.

Then I “corrected,” bumping my knuckles deliberately against the table’s edge and making a small, embarrassed sound.

“Still getting used to… aiming,” I murmured. “Sorry.”

Her shoulders dropped. Relief and something like suspicion warred in her gaze.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said again—quieter this time. “You’re doing amazing. Way better than I’d be if I woke up and suddenly saw everything again. I’d probably walk straight into a wall.”

I smiled faintly.

You didn’t walk into a wall.

You walked straight into my marriage.

But I didn’t say it.

“Bedroom?” I asked.

“Right.” She moved ahead of me, this time more carefully, making sure I had a wall or furniture within reach. “Step here. There’s a ridge. Okay. Door frame to your right.”

I let her guide me, counting the steps even though I didn’t need to anymore. Every inch of this penthouse had been mapped into my bones. Now, I had the visuals to go with it.

In the bedroom, the sheets were clean. The bed made. No trace of what had happened there hours before.

Of course not.

Alexander fixed problems. He erased mess.

“Here,” Elara said, tugging the duvet back. “Sit. I’ll get you some water and your meds.”

I obeyed, easing onto the edge of the mattress. She hovered for a second, biting her lip.

“Clara,” she began, then stopped. “I just want you to know… I’m really happy for you. I mean it. You deserve this.”

Do I?

“Thank you,” I said simply.

She swallowed, then fled toward the bathroom, the clink of pill bottles and running water filling the room.

I leaned back on my hands and stared at the ceiling.

I’d played blind pretty well for the cameras.

Now I had to decide how well I wanted to play it for them.

Elara returned with a glass and a small white pill in her palm. She pressed the pill to my fingertips, watching my face carefully.

I let my brow crease, my eyes tracking her hand just a little too accurately before I corrected, shifting my focus to somewhere near her shoulder.

Got too eager.

Slow down, Clara.

I opened my mouth, placed the pill on my tongue, and reached for the glass. I let my fingers skim the air first before finding it, adjusting my grip like it took effort.

“Headache?” she asked.

“A bit,” I said. “It’ll pass.”

She sat on the opposite edge of the bed, hands twisting in the fabric of her jeans.

“Do you… remember anything from the accident?” she blurted.

There it was. The question she’d been dying to ask and dreading my answer to.

I thought of metal crunching. Screams. A flash of light. Then black.

Then cold. A different kind of cold—machines, antiseptic, Alexander’s voice explaining “experimental options.”

And somewhere in that void, a serpent eating its own tail and a file named ACHERON.

“Not much,” I said. “Just… pieces. Why?”

“No reason.” Too fast again. “Just… if anything comes back, that feels scary, you can tell me. I’m here, you know?” She smiled, that bright, brittle cousin‑smile. “I’m always here.”

I looked at her.

Really looked.

She was beautiful, in that easy, golden way that drew eyes without effort. Soft mouth. Big eyes. The kind of girl people wanted to save.

She looked like someone my husband would cheat with.

She looked like someone who’d cry if I confronted her.

She looked guilty.

“I know,” I said. “You’ve always been here.”

Her shoulders slumped, the words landing heavier than I’d made them sound.

We sat in silence for a moment.

She broke first.

“I should let you rest,” she mumbled, standing abruptly. “If you need anything, just call. I’ll be in the guest room. Or the kitchen. Or—” She cut herself off. “You know where I’ll be.”

I did.

Everywhere I turned.

“Thank you, Elara,” I said.

She paused in the doorway, back to me. For a second, I thought she would turn. Confess. Apologize.

She didn’t.

The door clicked softly shut behind her.

I lay back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling again.

ACHERON.

Subject C‑01.

The serpent on the card burning against my thigh.

Whatever Alexander had done to me, whatever holes existed in my memory, started there.

He thought my blindness made me his.

He thought his secrets were safe.

He was wrong.

I turned my face toward the window, letting the dim outline of the city bleed through the curtains.

Let him think that.

For now, I would play his perfect little miracle.

Blind.

Grateful.

His.

Until I wasn’t.

And when I finally opened my eyes for him—

I’d make sure the first thing he saw…

was everything he built collapsing—

with me at the center of it.