The Perfect Wife's Unwritten Past

Elia Mullins POV:

The tires screeched, but the car didn't move an inch.

I couldn't do it. Not because I cared, but because he wasn't worth the murder charge.

Evan lay on the filthy ground, staring up at me. His eyes weren't filled with fear. They were filled with a wild, triumphant light. He had won. He had proven that I wouldn't-couldn't-leave him.

He was a madman.

I put the car in park, got out, and walked past his prone form without a word. I left my battered car in the alley and called for a ride. He didn't try to stop me this time. He just lay there, watching me go.

When I got back to the house, I locked myself in my wing. The divorce papers were still on my agenda, but my strategy had to change. A direct confrontation with a cornered animal like Evan was too messy. Too unpredictable.

My revenge needed to be colder. More precise.

The next day, my phone buzzed with an unexpected message. It was from Candida.

Elia, I am so, so sorry. I' ve been a fool. I know what I did was wrong. Can we please meet? I need to apologize in person. I want to make things right.

Her tone was a complete one-eighty from her usual smug taunts. It was humble, pleading. It was also a complete lie.

I knew it was a trap. But I was curious. What new level of pathetic theatrics was she planning?

Where? I replied.

She sent an address in Napa Valley. The address of the vineyard.

I' ll be waiting, she wrote.

I drove up that afternoon. The estate was magnificent, I had to admit. A sprawling Tuscan-style villa overlooking rows and rows of grapevines, the leaves just beginning to turn gold in the autumn sun. Evan had built this for her. A monument to their sordid affair.

Candida was waiting for me on the veranda, dressed in a flowing white dress, looking for all the world like the innocent maiden of the vineyard.

"Elia, thank you for coming," she said, her voice soft and breathy.

I didn't reply. I just looked at her, my expression unreadable.

She gestured for me to come inside. "Please, let's talk."

I followed her into a grand living room. The first thing I saw, hanging over the massive stone fireplace, was a portrait. It was a photograph, blown up to an obscene size, of her and Evan. They were laughing, their heads close together, the sun setting behind them.

But that wasn't what made my blood run cold.

It was the date stamp in the bottom corner of the photo. It was from six years ago. Before the crash. Before I had even met Evan.

Candida saw me staring. A small, cruel smile played on her lips.

"Surprised?" she asked. "Evan and I have known each other for a long time. He sponsored my scholarship to Stanford. I was just a poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks. He was my mentor. My savior."

She gestured around the room. It was a shrine to their relationship. Pictures of them everywhere. At a charity gala. On a ski trip. In Paris. All dated before my time.

"I even lived with him for a year, before he met you," she continued, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "In the guest room of your house. He told me I was like a little sister to him." She laughed, a bitter, ugly sound. "Men are such liars, aren't they?"

"He told you about me. Before the crash." It was a statement, not a question.

"Oh, constantly," she purred. "He was obsessed. He showed me your picture. He told me he was going to have you, no matter what it took. I was so jealous. But I was patient. I knew he'd get bored of his perfect little art doll eventually."

She walked over to a display case. It was filled with jewelry. My jewelry. Pieces Evan had given me over the years.

"He always asked my opinion before he bought you anything," she said, picking up a diamond necklace. "He has terrible taste, you know. I had to guide him. Even your wedding ring... that was my choice. I picked the one I knew you'd hate the most. Something gaudy and loud. Not your style at all."

My hand instinctively went to my finger, where the heavy, ornate diamond sat. It felt like a brand.

"I wanted you to be reminded of me every time you looked at it," she whispered, her eyes gleaming with malice. "A little piece of me, always with you."

A wave of nausea washed over me. The years of curated gifts, the "thoughtful" presents... all of it had been filtered through her. A collaboration of my captor and his conniving little helper.

"He's mine, Elia," she said, her voice suddenly hard. "He was always mine. You were just an intermission. A placeholder. Now it's time for you to leave the stage."

I looked at her, this petty, pathetic creature, so proud of her secondhand life. She thought this was her victory. She thought she had won.

A slow smile spread across my face. It was a genuine smile this time, full of relief.

"Thank you, Candida," I said, my voice sincere.

She looked confused. "Thank me? For what?"

"For this," I said. "You've made this so much easier. I was having a moment of doubt. Wondering if I was being too cruel. But you... you're so wonderfully, irredeemably awful. Now I can proceed with a clear conscience."

I took a step back, toward the door. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a vintage silver lighter. A gift from Caleb, from a lifetime ago. I'd kept it hidden all these years.

"What are you doing?" she asked, a flicker of fear in her eyes.

"Giving this monument a more fitting tribute," I said. "A funeral pyre."

I flicked the lighter open. The flame shot up, small and defiant. I walked over to a set of flowing silk curtains.

"You're insane!" she shrieked, scrambling back.

"No," I said, touching the flame to the hem of the curtain. It caught instantly, a line of fire racing up the fabric. "I'm just getting started."

The fire spread with terrifying speed, licking at the wooden ceiling beams, devouring the shrine of her stolen memories. Smoke filled the room, thick and black.

Candida was screaming, a raw, panicked sound. I just stood there, watching the flames, a feeling of serene, righteous satisfaction washing over me.

Through the roar of the fire, I heard the sound of a car screeching to a halt outside.

Evan.

He burst through the door, his face a mask of horror as he saw the inferno. He looked from the fire to me, then to Candida, who was huddled in a corner, coughing and sobbing.

I looked him straight in the eye, the heat of the flames on my face.

"Her or me, Evan," I said, my voice calm and clear over the crackle of the fire. "Who do you save?"

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