Page 75 of Beautiful Villain
She left him.
She came back to me.
I simply found my wife wandering.
It was almost generous of Gianni to hand her to me gift-wrapped.
I let her walk long enough to feel it.The ache.The fatigue.The creeping doubt that whispers when the adrenaline fades and the world gets very quiet.By the time I decided she’d earned her reunion, she was ripe for it.
I watched from the back seat as the car eased up beside her, smooth and unhurried.Tyres whispered over the asphalt, polite as a secret.There was no urgency to our movements.We were merely here to reclaim something that had wandered off without permission.
She didn’t react right away.Either she didn’t hear us, or she heard us and chose not to care.Her steps stayed even, mechanical.She was power walking, the faster the better, as though stopping meant thinking—and thinking meant feeling.
I tapped the glass once.
The window slid down.It was enough to get her attention.
“Well,” I said lightly, leaning forward so she couldn’t pretend I wasn’t there, “fancy running into you here, wifey.”
She stopped.Turned.Scowled.
But it was a poor effort.Weak.All edges and no fire.Her eyes were too wide, too flat, fixed on me with that same hollow, doe-like stare I’d always found irritating—and useful.The kind of look that said something inside her had already snapped, quietly, without asking permission.
I saw it instantly.There was only one way to describe my girl.
Broken.
For a brief, deeply inconvenient second, something shifted in my chest.I told myself it wasn’t guilt or regret, despite the flicker of recognition.Curiosity, maybe.A distant echo of empathy, if I were feeling charitable.
I crushed it without effort.
The feeling went out hard, stamped flat like a spark under a boot.There was no room for softness in my world.No space for doubt.
Mikayla didn’t say a word.
And somehow, that silence felt louder than screaming.
“Get in the car, Mikayla,” I said.
“Fuck you, Archie.You already took everything from me, so you do not get to pretend you still have choices for me.”
“I can force you to do whatever I want,” I replied evenly.“Do not confuse your anger with power.”
She kept walking as if I were not there, the car drifting alongside her like a patient predator.Her stride did not break.Her shoulders did not fold.
“Do yourself a favor and get in the car,” I said.“This does not need to be ugly.”
“Come near me and I will scream,” she replied, still facing forward.Her back was straight, her spine rigid, her gaze steely.
I watched her for a long moment, recalculating.
Then she turned her head and looked at me.
Something cold slid through my ribs.
Her eyes were dark, not with anger but with absence.Whatever Cavalho had done to her had not softened her.It had scraped her hollow.
“Mikayla,” I said.
