The Perfect Wife's Unwritten Past

Evan Mcmahon POV: The reporters were like vultures, tearing at the edges of the perfect world I had built. Their flashes were blinding, their questions like tiny, sharp knives. But I didn't see them. I didn't hear them. All I saw was Elia. She stood there, bathed in the merciless light of the cameras, and she looked... serene. Unbroken. She traced that shape on her chest-a flower-and whispered his name. Caleb. A cold dread, colder than the deepest part of the ocean, flooded my veins. It was a name I had spent five years and a fortune trying to erase from the face of the earth. The ghost I thought I had vanquished. My security team finally pushed through the chaos, forming a wall between us and the media, hustling them out of the room. The door shut, plunging the suite into a sudden, ringing silence. Candida was sobbing beside me, her small body trembling. "Evan, I'm so scared," she whimpered, clutching my arm. "What if she tries something else? She's... she's crazy." I patted her hand absently, my mind racing. "She won't touch you again," I said, the words automatic, hollow. "I won't let her." The doctor came in then, a prim woman with a disapproving frown. She checked on Candida, her movements efficient and detached. "The patient is stable," she announced. "The burns are superficial. She was lucky. However, the fall... she's had some bleeding. We managed to stop it, and the fetus's heartbeat is strong, but she needs complete bed rest. Any more stress or physical trauma could be catastrophic." "I want the best care for her," I ordered. "Private nurses, round the clock. Whatever it costs." Candida looked up at me, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "You don't have to, Evan. I'm not..." "I'm taking care of you," I said, cutting her off. The words felt right. They were the words of a protector, a man in control. But they felt like they were coming from someone else's mouth. My gaze drifted to the empty doorway where Elia had stood. She had just walked away, swallowed by the chaos she had created, leaving me in the wreckage. "Will you stay with me tonight?" Candida asked, her voice small and pleading. "I don't want to be alone." I should have said yes. She was the victim. She was pregnant with my child. She needed me. But all I could see was Elia's face. The cool defiance in her eyes. The ghost of a smile on her lips as she spoke his name. A wave of guilt, sharp and unwelcome, washed over me. I had publicly sided with Candida. I had called Elia "unwell." I had thrown her to the wolves I had so carefully kept at bay for five years. Maybe I should go to her. Apologize. Explain that I had to protect Candida, protect the baby. Elia was smart. She would understand. We could fix this. "Evan?" Candida's voice pulled me back. She was crying again, silent tears tracking through the soot on her cheeks. "I can't lose this baby, Evan," she whispered, her hand going to her stomach. "It's all I have left. After losing the first one..." Her words hit their mark. The guilt I felt for Elia was instantly replaced by a fresh wave of guilt for Candida. The first miscarriage had been my fault. I had been careless, distracted. I had promised to protect her, and I had failed. My resolve hardened. Elia had brought this on herself. She had set the fire. She had created this mess. She needed to be taught a lesson. For her own good. I leaned down and kissed Candida's forehead. "I'm not going anywhere," I said, my voice firm. "I'm staying right here." I would deal with Elia tomorrow. Tonight, I would be the man Candida needed me to be. We lay in the hospital bed together, the sounds of the hospital faint outside the door. Candida's breathing evened out as she fell asleep in my arms. Her body was small, pliant. She fit against me, but it was all wrong. The scent of her hair wasn't right. The curve of her hip where my hand rested felt foreign. For five years, I had fallen asleep with Elia in my arms. Her scent was a clean, subtle fragrance of old books and expensive soap. Her body was a landscape I knew better than my own. Even when she was cold and distant, just the feel of her beside me was enough to soothe the restless, possessive beast that lived in my chest. I closed my eyes and tried to picture Elia's face, but all I could see was that damnable flower she had traced on her skin. And his face. Caleb Flowers. The man whose life I had shattered to get to her. I thought he was broken. After the crash, my sources told me he had become a recluse. His company floundered. He was a ghost, a man hollowed out by grief. I had won. But what if he wasn't broken? What if he had been waiting? Searching? The news report Elia had seen... Miraculously, her fiancé, Caleb Flowers... survived. My heart hammered against my ribs. I had been so sure. My man on the inside had sworn the sabotage was perfect. A clean, tragic accident. But he had survived. And Elia now knew it. The media exposure... it wasn't an attack on me. It was a message to him. A flare sent up into the night. Here I am. Come and get me. The thought was a physical pain, a white-hot poker in my gut. He was going to come. He was going to try to take her from me. My Elia. My perfect, beautiful possession. I felt a tremor run through my body, a violent shudder of pure, primal fear. No. I wouldn't let him. I had ripped her from the jaws of death once. I had built a world for her. She was mine. She would always be mine. ---