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.