Wife's Fury, Dynasty To Ashes

th, I found my husband in our sacre

f him calling me "tainted" from the trauma that killed our so

dynasty; I decided to attend the

pte

arley

rain-slicked streets of Chicago when we were nothing but kids with empty stomachs and fists full of ambition. So when my husband' s p

first clean million. It was our sanctuary, the quiet, consecrated ground where we allowed ourselves to grieve for the son we never got to hold. We' d light a sin

even in the suffocating silence of our lo

ld and undisturbed. A knot of ice formed in my stomach. By noon, with no word,

. He' d collapsed on top of me, his blood warm against my cheek, and whispered, "I'm here, Ivy. I'm always here." He had been. For twenty years, H

was just

, my voice dangerously calm

hesitation. "

later. My blood ran cold. He was a

hey knew without asking. They knew what day it was, and they knew the look in my eyes. It was the same look I go

parked near the porch. But there was another car, a cheap, beat-up compact, parked beside it.

d, biting at my exposed skin. Through the large picture window

e was small, with dark hair that fell in a messy cascade down her back. She was wearing one of his shirts, the soft g

s the same way he used to touch me when he thought I was sleeping. A tender, possessive gesture tha

at grated against my eardrums. Then

is wasn't just a betrayal. This was a desecration. He h

by the water's edge. It was a simple, flat stone engraved with a single name: Leo. Our Leo. Beside it was a small, ha

kly at the gray water. Then I looked back at the window, at

r. It splintered against the frozen ground, the wood cracking with a sound l

kly hardened into something cold and calculating. The girl, Kaela, peeked out from behind him, her eyes wide with a mixture of fe

their hands on their weapons, formi

own to the broken pieces of the rocking horse. A flicker of

voice even. "What

ce a low, dangerous thing. I gestured with my chin tow

oung, so fragile. She looked like I did, once, before

tective gesture that twisted the knife in my gut.

he tried, the oldest, mos

ace where we mourn our child. You let her wear your shirt in the hom

always the strategist, the one who could see ten moves ahead.

la," he said, as

home. On this day." I took another step, my eyes locked on his. "You have

ttered the last remaining piece of my heart. He murmured somet

his voice fla

t tilt. It stopped

t now. In front of my men. In

scar on his back, the man who once stole bread for me because I was starving, the man wh

ozen air. I turned to my men. My voice was clear

t h