No More Unloved Wife: The Mafia Queen Returns

Anne returned to the mansion when night had already swallowed the city.

The cold wind slipped through her pale brown hair, carrying with it the damp chill of evening that seeped through every layer of her clothes. The house before her, once called a home, now stood with its windows dark and silent, as if it too had forgotten the existence of the woman living inside.

She lingered at the doorstep, eyes lifting toward the second floor where Edric's room was. It was pitch dark, no sign of life, no trace of him returning.

Her heart sank, but her feet still moved forward out of habit.

Anne walked straight to the kitchen and began preparing dinner.

The scent of food slowly filled the air. Red wine–braised beef, cream of mushroom soup, a simple garden salad.

All the dishes he liked.

Or at least, the ones he once said he liked during that polite, distant dinner before their marriage. She still remembered every word from that conversation, the way they had both agreed to study each other's preferences, to play their roles well enough to deceive their families in this loveless marriage.

When the meal was ready, she set the table.

At eight o'clock, she texted him:

"Will you be home for dinner? I made your favorites."

The message stayed unread.

As always, he did not reply.

Anne clasped her hands together, staring at the glass of red wine before her. She wasn't sure if she was waiting for Edric or waiting for a sign that this marriage still existed.

Outside, the sound of traffic faded. Inside, the clock ticked steadily onward.

She ate alone in the lavish kitchen.

When she set her chopsticks down, her nose stung.

It wasn't the wine. It was the silence.

Silence was far more terrifying than rejection.

She cleared the table, washed the dishes, and dried each plate carefully. By the time she was done, the clock had passed eleven, and Edric still hadn't returned.

Anne climbed the stairs. Her steps stopped before the master bedroom door.

Since their wedding, Edric had never once entered this room. It had long become hers alone.

She knew the truth well. A marriage born of contract could never create closeness. What good ending could possibly come from such a union?

She opened the door softly, sat down on the bed, and wrapped the blanket around her body.

The sheets were cold, like the surface of a lake untouched by warmth.

She turned on the bedside lamp. The faint yellow glow spread across her pale face. The wedding photo still stood on the nightstand, two people smiling, pretending to be happy. Edric was looking into the camera; Anne was looking at him, her eyes filled with the hope of a good marriage.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

Anne's heart skipped. For a moment, she thought she had imagined it.

Then it rang again, urgent and persistent. She hurried downstairs and opened the door.

On the porch stood Edric, unsteady on his feet, supported by his long-time secretary. The streetlight cast a faint glow across his sharp features. His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused.

The faint scent of alcohol surrounded him, yet when his gaze met hers, something flickered, something strangely lucid.

"Madam," the secretary said awkwardly, "Mr. Edric... he drank a bit too much tonight. I made sure he got home safely. Please excuse me."

"Thank you," Anne murmured. "I'll take care of him."

She slipped under Edric's arm. His weight pressed down heavily on her shoulder.

He said nothing, letting her guide him inside.

The door closed behind them, cutting off the world outside.

Only the scent of wine, the sound of breathing, and a heavy, suffocating quiet remained.

Anne helped him to the sofa.

"Would you like some water?" she asked softly.

Edric gave a faint smile, weary but strangely gentle.

"You still call me 'you'?"

She froze.

"Should I call you something else?"

"Call me Edric," he murmured, his voice rough, drawn from somewhere deep. "We're husband and wife, aren't we? Then 'my dear husband' or 'honey' would do."

She didn't respond. Her body had gone rigid at the unfamiliar intimacy in his tone.

His gaze lingered on her face.

Her hair was slightly tousled, her eyes shimmered with disbelief and confusion.

Edric raised a hand, brushing his fingertips against her cheek. His palm was warm, startlingly so. Two years of marriage, and this was the first time Anne had felt warmth from the man she called her husband.

"Your skin is always this cold?" he whispered. "Why don't you ever dress warmly?"

She tried to step back, but he caught her wrist and held her there.

The space between them dissolved. Their breaths mingled.

The scent of alcohol on him blended with the faint jasmine fragrance of her hair, creating something intoxicating that made her dizzy.

"Edric..." she breathed. Her voice trembled.

"Hush," he whispered, low and close. "Don't say anything."

His eyes no longer looked distant. There was depth in them now, a shadow of regret, perhaps, or longing.

His hand moved along her arm, so lightly it felt as if he feared she might shatter.

Anne stood frozen.

She didn't know what to do.

Her whole body tensed, torn between wanting to escape and being unable to move at all. Her heartbeat pounded, racing against her breath.

When he leaned closer, the lamplight reflected in his eyes, and in them, she saw only herself. Small. Fragile. But for once, she was the only one there.

His lips touched hers.

The kiss was not forceful or rushed. It was gentle, painfully so, as if he were searching for something he had long lost.

Anne's eyes fluttered closed.

Time seemed to stop.

There was only the sound of two hearts, two breaths, and the fragile space between them.

When he finally drew back, his forehead rested against hers.

"Do you know," his voice came hoarse, "how long have I tried to forget this feeling?"

Edric said.

Anne said nothing.

She didn't believe words spoken through wine. Yet the warmth of his hand was real, so real it made her want to believe.

He smiled faintly, tiredly.

"I must be drunk."

"Yes," she whispered, voice tight in her throat. "You should rest."

She tried to pull away, but he tightened his hold, drawing her closer. His large hand settled against her waist, burning through the thin fabric.

"Stay with me tonight."

Just five words, yet they made her heart stop.

Not an order. Not a plea.

Simply a quiet request, filled with everything she had longed to hear for two long years.

Anne looked up. Their eyes met in the dim light.

Whether it was the wine or something else, she could not tell. But his gaze stole her breath away.

In that moment, it felt as though the world had shrunk to only the two of them.

No more contracts. No cold distance.

Only warmth, a tender illusion that might vanish by morning.

He kissed her again, softly, on the forehead.

"Thank you for still being here," he whispered.

Anne nodded.

She didn't dare ask, "What about tomorrow?"

Because she already knew the answer would break her.

Tonight, this was enough.

A little warmth. A genuine touch.

For once, a lonely wife who felt seen.

She helped him upstairs.

He leaned heavily against her, but his breathing was steadier now. When she laid him on the bed, she lingered, studying his face as he drifted into sleep.

Under the soft lamplight, his hard features looked gentler, younger, almost kind.

Anne brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.

The gesture was light, almost like a prayer.

She wanted to remember this moment, knowing that by morning, he would return to his cold, distant world.

"Sleep well, Edric."

But just as she rose, the man who seemed deeply asleep suddenly opened his eyes.

His hand reached for her, pulling her back into his arms. Their bodies met, and his lips found hers again, fierce this time, desperate, until Anne could no longer resist.

She could not refuse him anymore.

The sky had fallen into darkness, and moonlight streamed through the window, tracing the silhouettes of two bodies entwined together.

"Edric, please don't tell me you'll regret this in the morning," Anne whispered softly against his ear. But before she could say another word, her lips were claimed by his breath, her voice swallowed by the heat of his kiss.

Faint, broken gasps filled the room.

When Edric touched her, he was both fierce and gentle, a tenderness Anne had never known before.

Their sweat mingled, their breaths tangled in the quiet night. His warmth pressed against her, his touch moved along her skin, and she felt as though she were melting beneath his hands, dissolving into the depth of his hunger.

Two years of marriage, yet this was the first time they had truly belonged to each other.

"Ah..."

A sharp pain made her frown.

She trembled, clutching him tightly, eyes closed, letting herself sink into the dizzying rhythm of it all.

The moonlight caressed the room, then slowly faded, giving way to the pale glow of dawn.

The first light of day slipped through the curtains, laying a golden sheen over the soft curves of the room. The faint scent of wine had disappeared, leaving only the warmth of skin and the quiet trace of what had been shared.

Anne opened her eyes.

The room was silent, save for the steady rhythm of breathing beside her.

She turned, and there he was.

Edric's handsome face rested against the pillow, his brows faintly furrowed, his breathing deep and slow. The sharp bridge of his nose, the curve of his lips still tinted with the memory of last night, he looked so close, so real.

Her heart stopped for a moment.

For two years, this was the first time she had seen him like this, without the tailored suit, without the cold, formal distance. Just a man, asleep beside her, his warmth brushing against her skin, making her heart tremble with a sweetness she had long forgotten existed.

She turned slightly, afraid to wake him.

Sunlight spilled over his bare chest, drawing soft lines across his body, strong but with something fragile beneath.

Last night felt like a dream, a drunken blur. Yet it wasn't only the wine. For one fleeting night, she had thought perhaps he had finally opened his heart to her.

Anne sat up, wrapped the blanket around her, and stepped off the bed.

Her bare feet met the cold floor, but warmth still lingered in her chest.

She wanted to make breakfast for him. Just once, she wanted them to share a morning together, like a real husband and wife.

She slipped on a robe and left the room.

Her steps on the stairs were light, almost soundless. In the kitchen, she boiled water. The aroma of coffee filled the air, mingling with the morning light.

Anne smiled, a small, delicate smile, but radiant nonetheless.

She made his usual coffee, black, no sugar.

Her hands trembled slightly as she poured it into the cup. She had never imagined something so simple could make her heart flutter like this.

But just as she turned around, the sound of footsteps echoed behind her.

She startled, the cup shaking faintly in her grasp.

Edric was standing there.

He wore a white shirt, hastily thrown on, a few buttons undone, revealing a glimpse of sun-bronzed skin. His hair was tousled, his eyes still heavy with sleep, but the warmth she had seen last night was gone.

His gaze was cool again, distant.

The sweetness in her heart crumpled, like paper crushed in a fist.

"You're awake," she said softly. "I was just making coffee for you."

Her voice was quiet, careful.

He didn't answer. His eyes flicked to the cup in her hands, then back to her face.

"Last night..."

His voice was hoarse, hesitant, as if he were searching for the right words.

"Last night was a mistake, Anne."

Every sound in the kitchen vanished.

Her whole body froze. Only the frantic beating of her heart remained.

"What... what did you say?"

Her voice trembled, small, like a lost child.

He looked away, rubbing his forehead as if in pain.

"I drank too much. I thought you were someone else."

Each word cut through her like a blade.

Anne stood there, lips trembling, but no sound came out.

"I'm sorry."

The apology was barely audible, but it felt final.

In her mind, she could still hear her own laughter from moments ago, the laughter of a foolish woman who had dared to believe in love again.

Someone else.

So that was it. He had never truly seen her, even when she had always been right there before him.

She lowered her head, her fingers tightening around the cup until her knuckles turned white. The heat from it burned her skin, but her heart was already cold.

"I understand."

Her voice was soft, almost weightless, but her eyes shimmered with something that had just shattered.

He still didn't look at her, or perhaps he couldn't.

"Let's pretend last night never happened," he said quietly.

She let out a short, bitter laugh. Not out of anger, but disbelief.

"All right. Let's pretend."

She set the cup on the table and turned toward the stairs.

Each step felt unbearably heavy, not with rage, but with emptiness.

Halfway up, she paused and looked back.

He was still standing there, a tall, cold figure, motionless, almost statue-like beneath the light.

The sun touched his face, outlining him in brilliance, burning the image into her memory.

And she knew, from that moment on, there would be nothing left to hope for.

She whispered, just loud enough for herself to hear,

"So even when I was in your arms, I was still nothing."

Then she continued upward.

Without looking back.

In the kitchen, the warmth of coffee lingered, but its bitterness had filled the air.

Edric stood there for a long time, staring at the empty space where she had been.

He closed his eyes and let out a slow, conflicted breath.

When he opened them again, all that remained was emptiness.

Outside, the morning sun had risen high, spilling across the vast mansion.

The light fell upon the windows, the dining table, the untouched cup of coffee, bearing silent witness to a dream that had already faded.

And in that quiet kitchen, Anne's shadow still lingered, fragile and fleeting, like the last trace of dawn before it vanished from Edric's world.

By the time dawn fully broke, Edric had already left the mansion.

The black car glided along a tree-lined road, sunlight flickering through the glass window, tracing pale streaks across his cold, weary face.

Inside, he leaned back in his seat, eyes closed, trying to smother the fragments of memory still burning from last night.

Anne's trembling breath, soft cries.

The way her tear-stained eyes clung to him, as though the slightest blink might dissolve everything between them.

As though her heartbeat had sought to chase him, until the two became one.

Such a beautiful woman, yet Edric had almost forgotten that she had been his wife for two long years.

He turned on his phone.

A message sat unsent on the screen. He stared at it for a long while, then finally added a few more words before pressing send.

"Take the morning-after pill. I don't want another mistake."

He gazed at the text for several seconds.

His eyelids fluttered; his lips quivered faintly.

Then the message was gone.

A soft ding broke the silence inside the car, slicing through the heavy air.

Edric exhaled slowly, eyes still closed.

He knew he had just done something cruel.

But he didn't know any other way to face the mistake of the night before.

Their marriage contract had only a few weeks left. If she kept anything that could bind them together like a child, a memory, or anything else, he feared he might falter.

The marriage had been a mistake from the beginning, and he refused to make another, whether toward her or himself.

He had given Anne comfort, money, a home, and he would ensure she had everything she needed even after the divorce. A stable future, untouched by him.

Edric wanted to settle his past before it destroyed him completely.

"It was just one night..."

He sighed.

The mansion was silent, so quiet the ticking clock could be heard marking each passing second.

Anne sat alone in the kitchen, a cup of coffee long gone cold between her hands, eyes fixed on the glowing phone screen.

The message stared back at her, stark and cruel, a clean incision across the heart.

"Take the morning-after pill. I don't want another mistake."

She read it again. And again.

Each repetition carves the words deeper into her chest.

Her shoulders trembled.

That was when she realized how violently her heart was pounding, rage, shame, grief all tangled together.

Last night's warmth returned like a cruel joke.

His breath. His touch. His arms around her.

Had it all been an illusion?

She pressed her lips together, swallowed the bitterness on her tongue, and blinked hard to keep the tears from falling.

Two years of marriage, and she had never expected love. But last night, just one night, she had dared to believe she could be loved.

She rose, opened the cabinet, and took out a blister pack of pills.

Her fingers trembled as she stared at the small white tablet resting on her palm, a perfect, round verdict.

She sat down again, looking at it for a long time.

The morning light filtered through the blinds, glancing off her pale skin and tired eyes.

Her lips moved in a whisper only she could hear.

"All right, Edric. I won't leave you with any mistakes."

And she swallowed the pill with no hesitation, no pause.

But as the bitterness spread down her throat, she felt her stomach twist. A wave of dizziness washed over her, sharper, heavier.

Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe emotion.

But minutes later, the pain surged violently. It tore through her abdomen like claws.

Her breath hitched. Sweat gathered cold on her skin.

She stumbled toward the sink, clutching the counter for balance.

The world tilted, walls, floor, light and everything spinning into a blur.

Her reflection in the mirror stared back at her, ghostly white, lips drained of color, eyes glassy and unfocused.

She looked like a stranger. A ghost of herself.

The nausea hit.

She doubled over, trembling, tears and sweat mingling as they fell to the cold tile below. Her heartbeat thundered in her chest, each pulse a desperate echo.

With shaking fingers, she reached for the fridge, searching for her phone.

She dialed emergency, her voice barely a breath.

"H-help... me... I can't... breathe..."

The phone slipped from her hand, clattering against the floor. She reached it out, but the strength was gone.

Her vision dimmed, only light and sound, fading.

Maybe this... was another mistake too...

A faint, broken laugh escaped her lips. Tears burned her cheeks, mixing with that fragile, crooked smile.

Just before she collapsed, she caught a glimpse of sunlight falling through the window, golden and soft, like the end of a dream.

Then everything went still.

A sound echoed from the front door...

...

The emergency room doors burst open.

Doctors shouted, machines beeped, metal instruments clanged in the chaos.

Anne lay on the gurney, pale as paper, an oxygen tube pressed to her nose, an IV dripping into her arm. Faint bruises colored her veins.

"Anaphylactic shock from contraceptives! Start gastric lavage immediately!"

The doctor's command cut through the air, sharp and urgent.

Everything moved fast, cold, mechanical.

In her delirium, Anne felt the sting of disinfectant, the rush of water, the nausea clawing up her throat.

She tried to open her eyes, but the world was blurred beyond recognition.

She didn't know where she was, only that tears burned against her temples, hot and salty, like the taste of her life itself.

Anne wanted to smile, but her lips wouldn't move.

Not too much... just a little mistake...

And then she sank back into darkness.

When consciousness returned, it was faint, only the sterile scent of medicine, and the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor.

Anne opened her eyes slowly.

Everything was white.

White walls, white sheets, white curtains. Even her hands looked pale, bloodless, foreign.

A nurse's voice drifted by.

"She's stable now, but her stomach's severely damaged. She'll need to be monitored closely."

Anne heard it, but didn't answer.

She turned her head and saw a glass of water on the nightstand, her phone beside it, dark, silent.

No messages and no missed calls.

A faint smile curved Anne's lips.

"So... no one came."

Her whisper echoed softly, dissolving into the still air.

The pain in her abdomen pulsed again, a dull reminder of what she'd done.

If there really had been a child... maybe it was the only thing that had ever truly belonged to both of them.

Her chest ached when she thought about this.

She wouldn't take those pills again ever, not after this.

She didn't cry because she couldn't. Crying only exhaustion remained, heavy and endless.

If that fragile life had survived, she thought, she would keep it. She would love it, even if it meant raising it alone.

Outside, the rain had stopped.

The afternoon light streamed through the window, soft and pale, falling across her face.

She stared up at the ceiling, a voice whispering inside her mind...

'Edric... I did as you asked. I made sure there were no mistakes left for you. But this time... I'll leave only one thing for myself.'

She closed her eyes.

The monitor kept its steady rhythm beep... beep... that the fragile heartbeat of a woman refusing to disappear.

A single tear slid down her cheek, soaking into the pillow, leaving behind only a faint, fading stain.