Chapter 3

Alexander's POV

I was angry.

Angry and frustrated; in fact, I felt down right enraged.

There was no reason for my mood and I knew that so well. If anything, I should be feeling so pleased as hell; after all, I had gotten what I wanted, and I'd wanted Abigail out of my life for a long time. I never wanted her, never chose her! It has always been Sophia.

The glass shattered against the floor before I even realized I’d thrown it.

Brandy splattered across the carpet, mixing with the remains of the broken picture frame and shards of glass.

I sank onto the couch, the half-empty bottle of brandy still clutched in my hand. The fire from it stung my throat as I took another gulp, the burn not nearly enough to drown the gnawing ache in my chest.

My gaze fell to the coffee table where the divorce papers lay with her signature bold at the bottom of the page. 

Still, I didn’t reach for my pen right away. I just sat there, the tick of the clock growing louder, my pulse throbbing behind my eyes.

“Sign it,” I muttered to myself, forcing a bitter laugh. “End it, Alexander. She’s nothing but a stain in your life.”

But my hand wouldn’t move.

Instead, my fingers tightened around the bottle again, and I tipped it back until the last drop hit my tongue. 

I leaned forward, running a hand through my hair, when something caught my eye.

The old journal.

It lay near the foot of the desk, the one she’d thrown at me before storming out. The cover was cracked, its corners bent, but when I reached for it, something slipped out, it was a handful of old, yellowed letters tied with faded ribbon.

My breath hitched.

I knew those letters. I knew that handwriting.

I’d spent years clinging to every word on those pages, the anonymous letters that had kept me alive when my father died, when I nearly lost everything abroad. The words that had healed me when I was broken.

Sophia’s words.

How did that bitch get a hold of this?

My hands were trembling, but I managed to untie the ribbon and unfolded the first letter.

“You said the world looks darker when no one understands you.

But I see your light, Alexander.

Even when you hide it from everyone else.”

My chest constricted. The scent of old ink, the rhythm of the handwriting, it was exactly how my pen pal had written to me. But years later after Sophia introduced herself as my pen pal, and I’d seen her write, I knew it wasn't the same as the letters. Her writing had always been smooth. But these strokes looked like something I had seen before.

I flipped to another.

“I wish I could tell you my name, but maybe that's not necessary.

Maybe this way, I can love you just how I want without holding back.”

At the end of the letter she attached a hibiscus flower, and that was the same flower tattooed at Abigail's waistline.

My fingers tightened around the paper as realization struck me like a blow to the gut.

It had been Abigail. All this time.

The one who’d written to me when I thought I was losing my mind. The one who’d pulled me back from the edge. The one who saw the real me before anyone else did.

And I’d married her only to destroy her.

“God,” I whispered, pressing the letter to my forehead. “No! There's no way in hell, it can’t be.”

But the truth was undeniable. Sophia had never been my pen pal. Abigail was.

She had been the one behind every word that made me believe in life again. And I had spent three years punishing her for it.

I pushed back from the chair so hard it screeched against the floor. I had to find her. I had to tell her I knew. That I was sorry. That maybe it wasn’t too late to—

My heart stuttered at the thought. Too late.

I rushed out of my study and down the hallway, calling her name. “Abigail!”

Her room was empty when I burst through the door. The closet hung open, half her clothes missing. My gut twisted.

She was gone.

I turned, slamming the door open again. “Where’s Mrs. Whitford?!” I barked at one of the servants, who froze mid-step.

“She left, sir,” the woman stammered. “Nearly an hour ago. Drove out of the mansion.”

“Did anyone see where she went?”

The servant shook her head, terrified. “No, sir. She seemed… very upset.”

“Search the grounds,” I ordered. “Everywhere. Check the gate cameras. Call the hospital, no, the police. She can’t have gone far. Find my wife and bring her back to me!”

Within minutes, my security team scrambled through the halls. My head of security returned a few minutes later.

“Sir, she’s not on the premises,” he said quietly. “We checked every wing, every room, even the garden.”

Panic gripped my throat like a vise. “Then find her!” I roared. “She’s not answering her phone, and she’s not stable, she could do something reckless!”

I was already halfway down the stairs when one of my men rushed toward me, his phone clutched tightly in his hand. His face had gone pale.

“Sir,” he said, voice trembling, “you need to see this.”

He handed me the phone.

For a second, I couldn’t process what I was seeing. Then the headline slammed into me like ice water:

“Ex-wife of Alexander Whitford Dies in Fiery Car Crash After Fleeing Scandalous Marriage.”

The accompanying picture made my knees buckle.

A car burned beyond recognition on the side of the highway. Same make. Same color. Same license plate.

“No.” My voice came out as a whisper. Then louder, harsher, until it became a scream. “No!”

The phone slipped from my grasp and clattered to the floor.

Without another thought, I ran.

I didn’t care about my shoes, about the people shouting after me. I grabbed my keys, stormed into the garage, and jumped into the first car I saw. The engine roared to life as I tore through the gates.

I drove across New York at a mad, reckless speed. I almost ran down some of those pedestrians and vehicles in my way.

Please, God. Don't take her from me.

When I finally saw the flashing lights in the distance, my heart plummeted.

The air smelled like smoke and gasoline. Fire trucks surrounded the wreck.

I slammed the car door open before it even stopped moving and ran toward the flames.

I ran until I thought my lungs would burst. I ran with Abigail's image etched irrevocably in my mind. I ran cursing myself, I was a fucking fool. I ran until my heart seemed about to falter and give out.

I was a block from the car when everything came into sight. The car was badly burnt by now and they were only able to pull out what looks like a human skeleton from the car. 

“Sir! You can’t go there!” someone shouted, but I didn’t listen.

“Abigail!” I screamed. My voice broke on her name. “Abigail!”

The firefighters tried to hold me back, but I struggled against them, thrashing like a madman. The heat scorched my skin, but I threw myself into it with the firemen, police and other medics who had come to the car rescue.

“Let me go!” I shouted, choking on smoke and grief. “Please, I just need to see her!”

One of the firemen grabbed me firmly by the shoulders. “Sir, it’s too dangerous! The car’s still hot, there’s nothing left to see!”

His words hit me harder than the heat ever could.

Nothing left.

I stared at the mangled wreck, the fire still licking at what was once her car. My knees gave way, and I fell hard onto the asphalt, my hands clutching the ground as sobs tore through my chest. I had no strength left. My body was exhausted and numb, except from the pain in my heart that was so fierce, I was afraid to acknowledge it. But it wouldn't go away. It grew stronger. My mind became so loud, savagely so, screaming at me.

She's dead!

She was in that car, she's dead!

I realized I was gripping the dirt and trying to deny it when I knew the skeleton that was pulled out was hers. I was crying like a child. Crying my eyes out, crying my guts out

I inhaled, exhaled. I looked at the road side, at the moon, anywhere but at the now glowing skeleton of Abigail's car. Finally I looked at the car for the last time. Tears quickly blurred my vision.

I lunged to my feet. Slowly I began walking away from the ashes of my dead wife.

There was a fury in my tears, and I raised my fist at the sky and cursed the God I did not believe in. Then I cursed myself, blaming myself, blaming myself for how I treated her, for not loving her. God, why did I now realize how much I loved her, and yes, damnit, needed her? How could I go on like this?