The Wife He Tried to Erase

Griffith POV:

The silk sheets tangled around Beryl and me, a warm cocoon against the cool morning air. She stirred, her head on my chest, her breaths soft and even. I felt a fleeting sense of peace, but it was quickly punctured by a sharp, insistent memory: Adelia' s frantic cry. Griffith! Help me! I' m at the cemetery! There are men-

A shiver ran down my spine. It had been days since that call. Beryl had convinced me it was one of Adelia's dramatic attempts to get my attention. A desperate bid to make me jealous. "She always does this, darling," Beryl had purred, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest. "Trying to sabotage my success. Don't fall for her games."

And I had believed her. Of course, I had. Adelia was prone to hysterics. Always so sensitive. So emotional. I tried to dial her back, just to be sure, but Beryl had snatched my phone. "Let her stew," she'd said, her eyes glittering. "She needs to learn her place."

So I let her stew. Beryl was right. Adelia was probably just trying to manipulate me. She was always clinging, always needing. It was exhausting. Beryl was vibrant, unpredictable, exciting. She understood my ambition, my drive. She was the one who deserved my attention.

Weeks turned into a month. Beryl and I became the "it" couple, gracing the covers of magazines, attending every high-profile event. I threw lavish parties for her, funded her global art tour. Her "Postpartum Reality" installation, despite the initial controversy, cemented her status as a provocative genius. We were unstoppable.

But amidst the glittering parties and Beryl's endless demands, a quiet unease began to settle in. Her rebellion, once so alluring, now felt like a constant drain. Her artistic "vision" often meant erratic behavior, last-minute changes, and public outbursts that I, as her patron, had to smooth over. My company, once my sole focus, began to suffer. Meetings were missed. Decisions were delayed. The board was getting restless.

One late night, hunched over financial reports, my head aching from lack of sleep, I found myself absently reaching for the phone. "Adelia," I murmured, the name slipping out before I could stop it. The emptiness of the apartment echoed my internal void.

She hadn't called. Not in weeks. Not since that frantic, tearful plea. A month. It had been a month. That was unusual, even for Adelia. She always found a way to remind me she existed. A text. A call. A perfectly cooked meal.

A sudden, sharp pang of something akin to longing hit me. Her homemade pasta. Her quiet presence. Her unwavering loyalty. I pushed Beryl's gourmet takeout container aside and got up. I needed to go home. The real home. Where Adelia was.

The apartment was cold. Dark. Still. Empty. Dust motes danced in the sliver of moonlight filtering through the window. It had been half a month since she'd been here. My heart began to pound with a cold dread.

Griffith! Help me! I' m at the cemetery! There are men-

Her voice, raw with terror, echoed in my ears. I dismissed it at the time. A game. A manipulation. But what if it wasn't? What if I had been wrong? My breath hitched. I grabbed my phone, my fingers fumbling. I dialed her number.

It rang. And rang. No answer. My face felt cold. My heart slammed against my ribs. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

The call from the police came an hour later. My assistant, pale and stammering, connected the line. "Mr. Wyatt... it's about... Mrs. Wyatt."

"What about her?" My voice was sharp, laced with a fear I refused to acknowledge.

"The police... they found some belongings. They need you to identify them. They think... they think she might be..."

"No!" I roared into the phone. "You've got it wrong! Adelia is fine! She's probably just sulking somewhere!"

The officer on the other end was calm, professional. "Mr. Wyatt, we believe Mrs. Wyatt was involved in a narcotics-related incident. We need you to come to the precinct immediately."

Narcotics? Adelia? That was impossible. She hated anything that wasn't pure. But the fear, cold and relentless, had already pierced through my denial. I rushed to the precinct, my mind a storm of frantic thoughts.

The detective laid out a small plastic bag on the table. Inside, glinting dully, was her wedding ring. The one I had given her, inscribed with our initials. My vision blurred.

"We found this, along with some fabric fragments, near a notorious drug trafficking point along the coast," the detective said, his voice grave. "It appears she was thrown into the sea. There's almost no chance of survival."

No chance of survival. The words echoed in my mind, hollow and terrifying. Adelia. Dead. Thrown into the sea. I stared at the ring, my hand reaching out, trembling. It was real. It was her.

"No," I whispered, shaking my head. "No, she's not. She can't be. She's just... hiding. She's playing a prank."

The detective looked at me with pity. "Mr. Wyatt, the currents there are treacherous. And the nature of the crime... we believe it was a drug cartel with a history of extreme violence. We're very sorry."

My knees buckled. The sterile precinct floor rushed up to meet me. Adelia. My Adelia. The woman who hated the dark, who feared enclosed spaces. Thrown into the vast, cold, dark ocean. Her last moments, filled with terror. And I, her husband, had believed she was playing games. I had hung up on her. I had left her to die.

A searing pain erupted in my chest, a physical agony that stole my breath. I felt a hot gush in my mouth. Blood. I coughed, a violent spasm, and then the world went black.