Page 77 of Hunted to the Altar
At dinner, when she picked at her food, barely tasting it.
In the gardens, when she sat motionless beneath the skeletal winter trees, the blanket tucked around her legs more armor than warmth.
She smiled sometimes, small and soft.
But never at me.
Never because of me.
I brought her a stack of contracts next. Divorce papers. Trust funds. Properties in her name.
She glanced at the stack once.
A slow blink.
Then turned away, her fingers tightening on her lap.
The rejection wasn’t cruel.
It was worse.
It was indifferent.
I had become a ghost to her.
The realization hit like a blade to the gut, splitting me open.
I couldn’t fix this.
I couldn’t rebuild what I had shattered.
But there was one thing left I could offer.
The only thing that had any real weight anymore.
My life.
The dagger was an artifact of another lifetime.
Polished steel.
Black leather hilt.
A symbol of power once handed to me by men whose names were spoken only in whispers. Now, it would become a symbol of surrender.
I found her in the conservatory.
The moonlight poured through the vaulted glass ceiling, drenching her in cold, silver light.
She looked like a statue—carved from grief and silence.
I approached slowly, every step an admission of guilt.
The dagger was heavy in my palm, dragging at my arm.
When I knelt before her, it wasn’t performance.It was penance.
She turned her head slightly, the movement slow, mechanical. Her dark eyes met mine—bottomless and unreadable.
