Todos los capítulos de From Dust to Ashes: A scorned Bride : Capítulo 81 - Capítulo 90

Julia.I woke up feeling like a stranger in my own skin. My body was heavy, not from sleep, but from the burden of every choice that led me here. One month. That’s how long I’d lived in this godforsaken mansion with Santos, and already it felt like I’d aged ten years.The ceiling above me seemed to lean in like a threat. I stared at it, my thoughts spiraling. Why did I sign that contract? What had I truly expected—that Santos would honor his promise, help me get my companies and properties back from Benjamin? That he’d be decent, just this once?I was a fool. A blind, desperate fool.The silk sheets clung to my legs like shackles. I sat up, running a hand through my tangled hair. I used to wear designer gowns and run boardrooms. Now I was caged, humiliated, forgotten.The door slammed open so hard it cracked against the wall.“Get the fuck out of my room!” I shouted before I even registered who it was.Santos strolled in, laughing, his arm around a bleached-blonde woman wearing little

Grey.There was something different about Camilla.At first, I thought it was just me being paranoid. A late night at work here, a tired sigh there, but then it became undeniable. The way she avoided eye contact, the way she slipped out of rooms like she couldn’t bear being around me. Conversations between us had shortened into awkward one-liners. Her smiles no longer reached her eyes. Her kisses felt like obligations.And that morning, I couldn’t take it anymore.I sat up in bed, staring at her as she moved around the room like a ghost. She avoided looking at me as she pulled a sweater over her head, her hair falling in front of her face like a shield.“Camilla,” I said, voice still rough with sleep.She paused at the mirror but didn’t turn around. “Hmm?”I sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward, elbows on my knees. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or do I have to keep pretending nothing’s wrong?”She froze. Just for a moment. It was subtle, but I caught it, the way he

Camilla.I stood before the marble tomb, my fingers trailing along the etched name that stared back at me like a ghost refusing to rest.Marcus Grey.The underground vault was cold, the kind of cold that seeped past skin and bone to coil itself around your heart. The air smelled like old stone and secrets. Secrets that no one wanted to say out loud. Especially Grey.I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d heard two nights ago. Grey killed his younger brother. Killed him. And the family covered it up like it was a wine stain on a white rug, just another mess to blot out and forget.But I couldn’t forget. They said it was an accident. That Marcus died because of a fight gone too far. That Grey wasn’t the monster people would paint him to be if they knew. But if that was true, why hide it? Why not go to the police? Why bury the truth six feet under, literally and figuratively?I stepped back, folding my arms across my chest, shivering despite the warm wool cardigan I wore.“You shouldn’

Grey.No one technically dies from Parkinson’s Disease. They die with it. That’s one of my doctor's favorite clichés. I can practically imagine it slapped on a bumper sticker, only slightly more absurd than “Guns don’t kill people; people do.”My usual response to having Parkinson’s has always been something along the lines of, Why me? But after that afternoon with one of the patients at the hospital on the Marsden rooftop, I found myself humbled. His condition seemed more severe. His illness trumped mine. If it were a playground game, his conker would shatter mine to bits.Looking back, it was around fifteen months ago that I first sensed something was wrong. The overriding symptom was the exhaustion. Some days, just moving felt like trudging through knee-deep sludge. Even so, I continued playing tennis twice weekly and coaching a small football team. I could still more or less keep pace with a dozen eight-year-olds during our training matches, imagining myself as Zinedine Zidane, th

Benjamin.I kept splashing cold water on my face, over and over, hoping, praying that it was the alcohol messing with my head. That I was hallucinating. That the woman sitting on my bed wasn’t who I thought she was.Rose.God, no. It couldn’t be her.My heartbeat thundered against my chest, the kind of beat that screamed something wasn’t right. I had seen her in the club. I wasn’t drunk enough to doubt my own damn eyes. The red wig, the confident sway in her hips. It was her. But she was confirmed dead. I’d been at the hospital. I saw the lifeless body, the cold silence of her skin, the white sheet pulled over her face. I heard the doctor say it out loud.“She is dead…”Still, I stayed in the bathroom longer than I needed to. I gripped the edges of the sink and stared at my reflection. “You’re seeing things,” I whispered to myself. “It’s not her. It can’t be.”But when I stepped out, she was still there.Sitting on the edge of my bed. Legs crossed. Wearing that stripper’s costume from