The Wife He Thought He Buried

A bent smile hovered on Grey's lips.

The last thing Chloe saw.

Heat and cold swarmed in her veins as blurred shapes beyond the windshield tumbled across her vision: an inky sky, crumpled steel, the relentless shuffle of passing headlights. Blood trickled from a huge gash above her eyebrow, following the curve of her face until it flooded the world in a dull, shimmering red.

She lifted a trembling hand to wipe it away, but her arm barely moved. It quivered against the twisted seat frame, as though the metal had welded it in place.

Then agony ripped through her ribs.

A breath tore from her lungs, sharp enough to make her vision flash white. Her legs were pinned beneath the dashboard, the metal biting deep into her flesh. She could no longer tell where the wreckage ended and her body began. Every heartbeat sent another bolt of pain through her spine, so she lay still, afraid that even the smallest movement might make whatever was crushing her dig deeper.

Her mouth tasted of blood and death.

She tried to swallow, only to choke on the blood gathering at the back of her throat. A wet cough escaped her, followed by another shallow breath that barely made it past her chest.

Outside, an engine purred past. Tires hissed over the rain-beaten asphalt.

No one slowed.

No one looked back.

Chloe tried breathing through her nose, but one nostril was clogged with blood and something else: glass, perhaps. She couldn't tell. Her lungs strained for air anyway, each breath thinner than the last.

The car groaned around her.

Tiny shards of shattered glass caught the dying light, scattered across her shoulders, her hair, her forehead. One shard had embedded itself just below her temple. Warmth bloomed beneath it, slowly spreading through her hair.

Her fingers twitched against the seatbelt buckle. Nothing else obeyed.

The ringing in her ears climbed higher, swallowing the distant traffic, the rain, even the sound of her own breathing.

Then, footsteps.

At first, she thought she'd imagined them. The crunch of gravel came again, followed by the scuffed thud of shoes against wet ground. Another step. Closer.

Her pulse stumbled, then began hammering against her ribs so violently that the sound rattled in her skull. Someone was coming. She forced her eyelids apart.

A dark figure emerged through the rain, becoming clearer with every step. Tall. Broad shoulders. A familiar figure she would have recognized anywhere.

It was Grey.

For one fragile second, warmth loosened something inside her chest. He had come.

Her lips parted. She tried to say his name, but the air caught painfully in her throat. All that escaped was a broken, rough gasp.

Grey stopped beside the twisted door. Rain ran from his shoulders, slipping down the collar of his coat in silver rivulets. His face remained half-hidden by darkness, blurred by Chloe's failing vision. Then he stepped closer.

And that was when she saw his mouth.

A smile. Small. Crooked.

So faint that under any other circumstance, she might have mistaken it for a trick of the light.

The warmth in her chest shattered. It felt as though the shards of glass had pierced straight through her, into her very soul.

Three days earlier, Grey had stood in front of her and said the words she hadn't been able to stop hearing ever since: "I genuinely wish you weren't a part of my life." The memory came back with cruel clarity.

So did many others.

Mornings when the house was dark, when Chloe would slip into the kitchen before sunrise to prepare his favorite meal. She remembered the heat of the gas flame against her skin, the quiet clatter of plates, the way she'd glance toward the stairs whenever she heard his footsteps.

Waiting. Always waiting.

She remembered setting steaming food on the table and watching him walk past without so much as a glance, as though she were just another piece of furniture in the house.

She remembered the dresses she'd bought because she'd once heard him mention liking a particular color. The little things she'd changed about herself. The apologies she'd offered for mistakes she hadn't made. The moments when his anger filled the room and she learned to make herself smaller, quieter, easier to tolerate. She had kept giving away pieces of herself, and somehow she had always believed there would eventually be enough of her left for him to love.

How foolish she had been.

Her vision began to blur. The world softened, darkness creeping slowly inward until Grey was little more than a shadow surrounded by rain.

She stared at that smile on his face. Maybe it wasn't a smile. Maybe her eyes were failing her. But it didn't matter anymore. Because after everything, after all the trying, the loneliness, the hurt, one thing had finally become painfully clear.

He had meant it.

Grey really had wished she wasn't in his life.

Her eyes slipped shut.

The last thing she saw was that crooked smile.

Then the darkness took her.

By the time Chloe slipped out of the art building, the sky had turned a dull, stormy gray.

A cold breeze rattled the glass windows behind her. She halted beneath the narrow concrete overhang, shifting the stack of things in her arms.

Her textbooks were pressed against her chest, their pages already curling from the damp air. Her sketchbook perched precariously on top, its spiral spine digging into her palm. A handful of loose charcoal studies and watercolor washes were wedged between her elbow and ribs. Her schoolbag hung limply from one shoulder.

The faded olive bag had been patched so many times that Chloe had stopped noticing the stitches. If she tried to stuff all her books inside, the seams would probably surrender and fall apart. So she carried everything herself.

The stack wobbled dangerously as she adjusted her grip, leaving her arms aching beneath the weight.

She barely noticed.

A slow, small smile tugged at her lips. Art class always did that to her.

For a few hours, the rest of the world seemed to disappear. Every pencil stroke felt like uncovering some hidden part of herself. Every shade she added made the blank page feel like it had become part of her. A part that couldn't be harmed or touched.

Today, she'd spent most of the afternoon working on a portrait in charcoal and ink, chasing the way light fell across the face. The result still felt unfinished, but there was something about it she liked. Something alive.

And that was enough for her.

Chloe stepped out from beneath the overhang and glanced toward the road. A single raindrop fell against her cheek, cold as glass, then another. She looked up.

The sky split open.

"Oh."

She hurried forward, folding her arms tighter around her drawings as rain hammered the pavement. Almost immediately the water darkened her clothes, and her worn flats splashed through the growing puddles. Home was close. Just around the corner, past two narrow blocks of sidewalk and a row of tired streetlights. If she hurried, maybe she could beat the worst of the storm.

Maybe Mary would have something warm waiting.

Or better yet, a hug.

The thought softened her smile. Mary always had a way of making Chloe feel seen. She was the woman who whispered You are beautiful when even Chloe didn't believe it. The woman who told her that being poor didn't make her less worthy. The woman who called every sketch special, even the ones Chloe herself thought were horrible.

Sometimes Chloe wondered if she would have survived all those years without her mother's reassurance.

She picked up her pace. She was really tired, though not the kind of tired that sleep could fix.

She was tired of the whispers behind her back. Tired of the laughter that followed her through corridors. Tired of pretending she didn't hear the names people called her.

But she was happy, too. Because she'd spent the day doing what she loved, and now she was going home.

That was enough.

She rounded the corner. Five silhouettes emerged through the curtain of rain.

Chloe's steps slowed.

Three girls and two boys. She knew them. Everyone in school did.

They were the popular clique, the kind of students who wore expensive clothes without thinking about the price, whose names seemed to travel faster than they did. They were also bullies. And for reasons Chloe never understood, she was one of their favorite targets.

They spread across the sidewalk, blocking her path.

One of the girls glanced at the pile in Chloe's arms and snorted. "Still carrying everything in your arms?"

Another looked at the patched schoolbag. "Can that thing even survive another day?"

Their laughter cut through the rain.

Chloe lowered her eyes and tried to step around them. One of the boys moved directly into her path and asked where she was going in such a hurry.

"Home," Chloe whispered.

"Home?" The girl repeated the word with a mocking smile. "Who would want to look at you all day and still see you at home?"

They laughed again.

Chloe's fingers tightened around her sketchbook. She said nothing. She had learned that answering them only gave them a reason to attack her.

"Look at her," someone muttered. "She's going to cry."

Chloe blinked quickly, her throat tight. She didn't want them to see her cry.

"Please," she whispered. "Just let me pass."

The word had barely left her mouth before one of them shoved her.

Her balance vanished and her books slipped from her hands. The sketchbook was the first to hit the pavement, followed by her paintings. Chloe fell hard onto the wet concrete, her palms scraping against the rough surface.

For a moment, she simply stared. One of her drawings had landed in a puddle.

"No..."

She reached for it, but the rain ran across the page, dragging the charcoal lines into gray streaks. Another sketch slipped from the pile and spun toward the gutter. Chloe lunged after it. Her fingers caught the edge just before it disappeared.

Her eyes burned, and this time the tears fell before she could stop them. But the rain came harder. It poured over her hair, her face, her lashes, washing everything together until nobody could have said where the rain ended and her tears began.

Perhaps that was better.

With trembling hands, she gathered her drawings, though most were ruined. She didn't look at the five people standing around her. She couldn't.

Why did they hate her? She had done nothing to them. She kept to herself, went to class, and drew. That was all.

Why couldn't they simply leave her alone?

Her fingers closed around the half-wet portrait she'd worked on all afternoon. The edges had frayed. The charcoal had smudged. But the image was still there.

She stared at it.

Deep down, beneath all the voices that had spent years telling her otherwise, Chloe knew she was good at what she did. She knew it.

But knowing and believing were two different things. What was the point of being talented if no one would ever see it? Maybe her classmates were right. Maybe her drawings weren't good enough. Maybe no one would ever care.

She wiped her cheeks. The gesture was useless. Rain immediately replaced the tears.

Then she heard footsteps. Not laughter. Not hurried footsteps. Slow, measured footsteps, coming closer through the rain.

Chloe froze and looked up.

A man emerged from the curtain of rain. He wore a dark wool coat, soaked through at the shoulders. Water ran from his dark hair and traced the sharp lines of his face. He carried no umbrella and looked as though he hadn't noticed the storm at all.

There was something distant about his expression. Something heavy.

Grey King had spent the entire day walking through memories.

Three years ago, Grace had died. Three years, and the date still had the power to pull the air from his lungs. The rain made everything worse. He had refused the driver, refused the car, refused any human company. He just wanted to walk until the ache inside his chest became quiet enough to bear.

Then he saw her: a girl crouched on the pavement, surrounded by ruined drawings. Her shoulders trembled beneath the rain.

For a moment, Grey simply watched. He knew that posture. He knew what it looked like when pain became too much to carry. He had spent years carrying his own. Grief had a way of crushing a person without ever leaving a visible bruise.

And he hated seeing someone else crushed the same way. Especially over something so meaningless.

His gaze fell to the scattered paintings. That was what made him move. He walked toward her.

Chloe lowered her gaze, gathering the last of her things. Then a shadow fell across the pavement. She looked up.

Grey crouched. He picked up the nearest sketch and held it carefully by the corner, protecting what remained dry. Chloe stared. He wasn't laughing. He wasn't looking at her with disgust. He was looking at her drawings. Actually looking.

Grey studied the charcoal work for several seconds. The portrait was unfinished, but the proportions were surprisingly precise. The shadows around the eyes were delicate. The light across the cheekbone had been carefully observed.

He picked up another. His gaze moved over it.

Then he looked at Chloe. "You drew these?"

She nodded.

His eyes returned to the page. "This is good."

Three simple words. Nothing more.

Yet Chloe's breath caught.

Grey lifted the sketch slightly. "You have a good eye."

She stared at him. No one at school had ever said that, at least not without laughing afterward or turning the compliment into another insult.

Something inside her loosened, and the tears stopped almost instantly.

She reached for the drawings with trembling hands. "Thank you."

Grey gave a small nod and handed back the rest of the sketches. "Keep doing it."

Then he stood.

He didn't ask for her name, and she didn't ask for his. To him, she was simply a stranger in pain. Nothing more.

He turned and walked away.

Chloe watched him. The rain swallowed his figure little by little until he became nothing more than a dark silhouette against the gray. She didn't understand why she was still staring. She only knew that she was.

Then she gathered the last of her things and ran home.

By the time Chloe reached the house, her clothes were soaked through and her hair clung to her cheeks. She slipped through the back door and hurried to her room before her mum could get a proper look at her.

"I'm home," she called softly.

A distant voice answered from somewhere down the hallway. Chloe smiled faintly, but she didn't stop.

She laid her paintings across the desk, carefully separating the damp pages. Some were ruined beyond saving. Others were merely wrinkled. She worked patiently, lifting one page after another and placing them where they could dry.

At the bottom was the sketch Grey had held, its corners torn, its surface mottled by the rain. But the face was still visible.

Chloe touched the paper with one finger.

You have a good eye.

A small smile found her lips, and she sat down.

At the back of her sketchbook was a clean page. She stared at it for a long time. Then she picked up her pencil.

She didn't know what she wanted to draw, but her hands moved regardless. A pair of observant eyes. Dark hair. A strong nose. A defined jaw. The faint heaviness of an expression touched by sorrow.

She paused. Looked at the emerging face. Then continued.

Slowly, the stranger from the rain appeared beneath her pencil. When she finally leaned back, Chloe stared at the finished portrait. She had captured him almost perfectly. The man looked exactly as she remembered him: soaked through, quiet, distant, and somehow luminous.

Chloe smiled. She knew neither his name nor where he came from. But he had looked at something she had created and made her feel as though it was worth seeing.

For Chloe, that was enough.

She lowered her pencil. Beneath the portrait, in small handwriting, she wrote two words.

The Stranger.

Morning came quietly.

For a few seconds after waking, Chloe stared at the ceiling without remembering where she was. Then yesterday came rushing back. The rain. The ruined drawings. The five classmates laughing around her.

And him.

The nice man.

Chloe turned her face into her pillow. A strange warmth crept into her cheeks. She didn't even know his name, yet somehow she'd spent part of her night thinking about him. That was embarrassing. She rolled onto her back and covered her face with both hands.

Why was she thinking about him so much? He had only picked up her drawings. He had only said they were good. That was all.

Still, a small smile escaped her lips.

Chloe sat up quickly, as though someone might have caught her. She looked around her room. No one was there. She laughed softly at herself.

Then she remembered the portrait.

She climbed out of bed and crouched beside it, reaching underneath the frame until her fingers found the old cardboard box. It had once held a pair of shoes her mother had bought her. She had rescued it months ago, covered the outside with scraps of colored paper, and decorated the lid with little flowers she'd drawn herself. It was imperfect, slightly crooked, and precious to her.

Inside were the things she didn't want anyone touching. Her diary. A few tiny paintings. Old sketches. Little scraps of paper she couldn't bring herself to throw away. And now, carefully placed among them, was the portrait of the nice man.

She lifted it out. The drawing might not be perfect to others, but to her it was. She liked the dark hair. The quiet eyes. The heaviness in his gaze. She remembered the way he'd held the pages under the rain.

You have a good eye.

Her cheeks warmed again.

"Stop it," she whispered to herself.

She slipped the portrait into her schoolbag instead. She didn't know why. Maybe she wanted to look at it once in a while. Maybe she wanted proof that yesterday had really happened.

Downstairs, Mary was already moving around the kitchen when Chloe appeared.

"Good morning, Mum."

"Good morning, my child."

Chloe adjusted the strap of her bag. She was almost at the door when she turned around. "Mum?"

Mary looked up. "Hmm?"

Chloe smiled. "Guess what?"

Mary smiled back. "What?"

"Someone helped me yesterday."

There was a little brightness in Chloe's voice that hadn't been there a moment earlier. Mary noticed.

"Someone?"

"Yes." Chloe's smile widened. "When those mean people were bothering me, someone helped me pick up my drawings."

Mary's expression instantly softened. "That's nice."

"He was really nice." Chloe seemed to realize what she'd said. Her cheeks colored. "I mean... he was just... nice."

Mary gave a small laugh. "Go to school before you're late."

Chloe smiled again and slipped out the door. She didn't show Mary the portrait. Not yet. She wasn't even sure why she wanted to keep it to herself. It just felt like something that belonged to her.

By the time Chloe reached school, the previous day's storm had left the campus smelling of wet earth and concrete. The sky had cleared. The corridors were already filling.

Chloe slipped into her classroom and went to her usual seat. She set her books down and opened her bag. The portrait was still inside. She glanced at it before carefully moving it aside to reach her notebook.

Then her elbow caught the edge of the bag. It tipped. The contents spilled across the floor: her notebooks, pens, and ruler.

Then the portrait. It slid across the floor and stopped near someone's shoes.

Chloe froze.

One of the girls from yesterday bent down and picked it up. Her eyebrows rose. "Well, well."

Chloe stood quickly. "Please give that back."

The girl lifted the portrait higher. "What's this?"

"Please."

She waved it above her head. "Guys! Come and see!"

Two of her friends turned. Then the others joined them. Chloe's stomach dropped.

"Give it back."

One of the boys laughed. "Is that a man?"

The girl holding the portrait squinted at it. "Looks like it."

Another girl looked at it. "Wait." She stared at the drawing. "Isn't this the man from yesterday?"

Chloe's face went very pale, very fast. They had seen him.

One of the girls laughed. "You actually drew him?"

The others burst into laughter. Chloe reached for the portrait. "Please, just give it to me."

The girl pulled it out of reach. "Why? You like him?"

"No." The answer came too quickly, so they laughed harder.

"You do!"

"I don't."

"You're blushing!"

Chloe's cheeks burned with embarrassment. "He just helped me."

"Helped you?" One of them repeated it mockingly. "And you think that's enough to start drawing his face?"

"He probably doesn't even remember you."

Another girl looked at the portrait again. "He's handsome, though." She smirked. "Do you actually think someone like that would notice you?"

Chloe's eyes burned. She blinked quickly. Once. Twice. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat.

"I didn't say that."

"But you drew him."

"He was nice to me."

The words came out quieter than she had intended.

The girl laughed. "She's dreaming. Completely delusional."

"Maybe she thinks he's going to marry her."

More laughter.

Chloe lowered her eyes. She refused to cry. She took a breath. "Please give it back." Her voice trembled, but she kept it low. "It's mine."

The girl raised the portrait higher. "He probably only looked at you because he felt sorry for you."

A tear escaped. Chloe wiped it away immediately. Another followed.

"Please..."

Her breathing became uneven. "Just give it back."

She wasn't angry. She was trying desperately to hold herself together. They were laughing at her again. They were making fun of the one person who had been kind to her. She didn't understand why something so small had to become another reason for them to hurt her.

"Stop," she whispered. Her voice cracked. "Please stop."

The girl holding the portrait only laughed. One of the others reached for it. "Let me see."

The first girl handed it over.

The second girl studied the portrait. For just a moment, her expression changed. She looked at the shading. The proportions. The careful details around the eyes.

She knew. The drawing was good. Really good.

But she wasn't about to tell Chloe that.

She wrinkled her nose. "It's not even that nice."

Then she tore the portrait in half.

Chloe stopped breathing.

The sound of paper ripping seemed louder than the laughter. She stared. The girl tore it again. And again. Little pieces fell from her hands.

Chloe couldn't move. She couldn't understand why they had done it. It was only a drawing.

But it wasn't only a drawing to her. It was the first thing she'd made that carried the memory of someone being kind to her.

Her eyes remained fixed on the scraps scattered across the floor.

The bell rang. Break time. The other students began moving toward the doors. Someone laughed as they passed.

Chloe slowly bent down. She picked up the pieces, one by one. She didn't say anything. She simply gathered them against her chest and walked away.

The rooftop was empty. It always was.

Chloe pushed open the door and stepped outside. The wind caught her hair. She sat against the wall and stared at the torn pieces in her hands.

Then she cried.

She cried until her chest hurt. Until her eyes burned. Until the humiliation became too heavy to hold inside.

Eventually, she wiped her face. Her hands still trembled. She opened her sketchbook.

For a while, she stared at the blank page. Then she picked up her pencil. The first line was crooked. She erased it. Tried again. This time, her hand steadied.

She remembered the nice man's face. The shape of his eyes. The line of his jaw. The dark hair falling across his forehead. The distant sadness she'd noticed in his expression.

Her pencil moved.

Slowly, the rooftop became quiet around her. No laughter. No voices. No one telling her she wasn't good enough. Just the soft scratch of graphite against paper. Her breathing gradually slowed. The tears stopped.

The portrait began to take shape.

By the time she finished, Chloe leaned back and stared at it. Her chest felt lighter. It wasn't exactly the same as the first. This one was softer. More careful.

She smiled. She was proud of it. Relieved. Satisfied. For a few minutes, she forgot everything else.

She had drawn him again.

And this time, she would make sure no one took it away from her.