Cold Wife Novels & Stories

The words trailed off, but Casey's ears picked up the faint hum of gossip. Casey's memories blurred, but the image of a rural village lingered - the scent of damp earth, the cries of birds, and the pain. Her eyes fluttered closed, memories of that fateful night resurfacing: flames engulfing the small cottage, screams echoing through the darkness, and the acrid smell of smoke. Since then, she had been labeled a harbinger of misfortune, shunned, and bullied by the villagers. The villagers' wary glances and whispered insults still stung: "Cursed child," "Wolf's daughter," "Bad luck." The labels clung to her like a shroud.

The courtyard where I lived was always lively, with kids lingering there every day, reluctant to go home. Sometimes a kid would run lightly along the village road. When someone asked, "Where are you going?" he'd shout back, "I'm going to Mr. Ford's house!" That simple, cozy courtyard eventually gained a new name: "Mr. Ford's House." Without even realizing it, I had finally found a home of my own. That summer, I unexpectedly collapsed from heatstroke. The kids were in a panic, but they didn't lose their heads. The stronger ones worked together to carry me into the shade. The faster runners dashed off to find a phone to dial 911, while those who lived nearby rushed home to fetch the adults.

The candle she’d used;a random leftover from some forgotten event, was melted and leaning sadly to one side. “Happy birthday to me,” she muttered. Her phone lay nearby, screen dark, notifications stacked from friends, classmates, random acquaintances who remembered just late enough to feel guilty about it. She scrolled through messages lazily before dropping the phone back onto the couch. Her stomach growled and so she stood, stretched her sleepy bones, and walked to the kitchen. She got to the fridge and opened it. Closed it, then opened it again like food might magically appear. There was… nothing.

He had the gall to show up outside my apartment again. This time, he kneeled in the snow, shaping handfuls of it into roses. One after another, he laid them out in front of the building until the ground was covered in white roses. His hands were red from frostbite, but he didn't stop. People walking by began whispering. "His girlfriend must be really mean, making him do this in the cold." "Even if he pissed her off, she shouldn't make him stand out here like that." "Man, he must really love her. How I wish I could find a guy like that."

The cold CEO and his scandalous wife. Elena sat alone in her room, scrolling through endless headlines. Every comment, every photo felt like another blade. Then her phone buzzed again—an unknown number. She hesitated, then answered. “Hello?” A woman’s voice whispered through static. “Poor Elena… caught in a game you don’t understand.” “Who is this?” “Someone who knows your husband far better than you ever will.” Her blood ran cold. “Vivienne Roth.” A soft laugh. “You’re learning.”

As if giving a verdict, I said softly, "Harvey, I'm getting married. Feel free to drop by our wedding." I tossed the ring into the snow. It vanished instantly. Harvey dropped to his knees and frantically searched for it, his face pressed to the snow. He had no pride left to speak of. His voice trembled as he muttered over and over, "If I find the ring, Jenna will forgive me. If I find it, she'll forgive me…" I shook my head and went back into the house. The lost could never be found. The next day, the groundskeeper told me of having seen a man searching in the snow all night, like a madman. He eventually passed out from the cold and was rushed to the hospital.

Vince’s expression didn’t change. “Business isn't sentimental.” “No,” she said softly. “It’s not.” The room felt colder suddenly. Tiana stepped closer again. This time her eyes were different. No playful smile. No light teasing. Just something sharp and burning. “A year ago,” she continued slowly, “there was a small house outside the city.” Vince didn’t interrupt. “A family lived there,” she said. “Nothing special. Just ordinary people trying to survive.” Her voice trembled slightly now, though she tried to control it.

Julian said, not replying to her question. Jane stiffened, her eyes darting sideways. "My d-dad… what could you possibly want to ask me? You should ask him instead." "I can't ask him because he doesn't have the ability to speak anymore." Jane's eyes widened in terror. "What do you mean by t-that?" Julian calmly continued, "He was found battered and bruised on the outskirts of the city, and he was found to have been injected with curare poison, damaging his vocal cords permanently. He is currently in a coma."

Cold is honest. I slip out the back door. Bare feet on ice. Sharp. I bite my lip. No sound. Next door lives Mrs. Petrova. Old. Kind. Widow. Her light is on. I knock softly. Once. Twice. She opens. Slow. Her eyes are milky. “Anya?” “Please,” I whisper. “A coat. Just for tonight. I am cold.” She looks at my dress. At my face. Her mouth turns down. She knows. Maybe not all. But enough.

Monday, January 20 It was one of the worst winters in recent memory. There had been some sort of snow, freezing rain and temperatures in the teens every day. The old timers called it the Demon's Breath Winter. The only people on the streets were the shoppers and those who worked. It was the gangbangers, junkies, and welfare who stayed inside. They would get cabin fever and either start killing each other or themselves.