Chapter 8 - THE WIFE WHO SMILED THROUGH THE LIES
Dominic sat alone in the penthouse that evening.
The curtains were open.
For the first time in years, he allowed the sunset to fill the room.
His headache remained.
But the knowledge that someone had deliberately manipulated his health changed the way he understood his pain.
He looked at Celeste's photograph.
She stood beside him at a charity gala.
Beautiful.
Elegant.
Smiling.
He remembered how she'd insisted on choosing his clothes.
How she arranged his medical appointments.
How she told him he was too stubborn to listen to doctors.
He had mistaken control for care.
Now he wondered how much of their marriage had been real.
Beatrice entered quietly.
She carried a tray.
Tea.
Toast.
A small bowl of soup.
Dominic looked up.
“You didn't have to do that.”
She shrugged.
“You haven't eaten.”
He smiled faintly.
“You sound like my mother.”
“Your mother was probably sensible.”
He laughed softly.
She sat across from him.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Dominic said:
“I loved her.”
Beatrice looked at the photograph.
“Celeste?”
He nodded.
“I thought she loved me.”
Beatrice said nothing.
He continued.
“When the headaches started, she sat beside me through the worst nights.”
His voice broke.
“She held my hand.”
Beatrice looked down.
“People can do kind things and terrible things.”
Dominic stared.
“Does that make the kindness a lie?”
She considered the question.
“I don't know.”
He looked at her.
“That's not very comforting.”
She smiled sadly.
“I'm a tailor, not a philosopher.”
He laughed.
Then grew serious.
“Your father said the records might explain the exposure.”
Beatrice nodded.
“But they don't explain everything.”
Dominic looked at her.
“What do you mean?”
“Headaches can have many causes. You need an independent medical evaluation.”
He nodded.
“I've scheduled one.”
She smiled.
“Good.”
Silence.
Then Dominic looked at her.
“Why aren't you afraid of me?”
Beatrice laughed.
“I am.”
His expression changed.
She continued.
“I'm afraid of your guards. Your reputation. The fact that people disappear around you.”
Dominic looked down.
“But I'm not afraid to tell you when you're wrong.”
He studied her.
“Why?”
She smiled faintly.
“Because my father taught me that fear doesn't make someone right.”
Dominic stared.
For years, people had obeyed him because they feared consequences.
Beatrice was the first person in a long time who looked at him and saw a man capable of being wrong.
He found the experience uncomfortable.
And strangely peaceful.
Then his phone rang.
Leo.
Dominic answered.
“What?”
Leo's voice was tense.
“Boss, we found something in the old harbor investigation.”
Dominic sat straighter.
“What?”
“The remains identified as Anthony Russo were never independently verified.”
Silence.
Dominic stopped breathing.
Leo continued.
“The original identification was signed by Dr. Julian Mercer.”
Dominic looked at Beatrice.
His face had gone white.
“Anthony.”
She stared.
“What?”
Dominic swallowed.
“My brother.”
May you like
His voice broke.
“What if he isn't dead?”
