His Wife Was Wheeled Past in Silence—While He Stood There Holding Another Woman’s Hand

Before launching the assault, Dominic returned briefly to his Lake Forest estate to change his clothes and gather Clara’s personal belongings for the hospital.

The grand stone mansion felt completely hollow.

Dominic walked up the marble staircase, his footsteps echoing through the empty corridors. He opened the heavy double doors into the master suite—the room he had barely spent two nights a week in for the past year.

The room was immaculate. Fresh white flowers sat in a crystal vase on her vanity table. Her favorite perfume—a subtle, elegant scent of jasmine and rain—hung faintly in the air.

Dominic walked over to her writing desk near the window.

A leather-bound journal lay closed beside a silver pen.

Dominic hesitated. Clara was a private woman who guarded her inner thoughts fiercely. He had never dared look through her things when she was awake. But now, driven by a overwhelming guilt, he slowly opened the cover.

The entries spanned the five years of their marriage.

May 14th: Dominic bought me a rose today. He thinks it was a gift, but I know his assistant picked it out. Still, I will keep it in my book.

August 22nd: He stayed late in the city again. I made his favorite dinner, but it went cold. I know what people say about him and other women. I pray every night that he returns safely anyway.

October 3rd: He spent his birthday with her. I sat alone in the dining room with his cake. I don't hate him. I just wish he saw me as something more than a contract.

Dominic’s vision blurred with tears as he read her neat, delicate handwriting. Every word was a silent blade piercing his heart.