Chapter 2: Blood, Wine, and Promises

Just after midnight, the lock clicked.

The sound echoed through the empty house. I glanced at the clock—12:07 AM. Right on schedule. Some things never change.

I didn’t know who he spent his other nights with, but tonight, Harrison would definitely come home.

I’d learned not to ask questions. Tonight, though, I knew he’d be here. Some anniversaries you just don’t skip, no matter how far you’ve drifted.

Because today was the anniversary of Charlotte’s death—and of our child’s.

Every year, I lit a candle for them. It was my own private ritual—a way to remember, to grieve, to hold onto the little I had left.

I sat on the sofa, waiting for him, swirling a fresh glass of cabernet from a Napa winery.

The house was quiet, except for the hum of the fridge and the soft clink of glass. I watched the wine catch the light, deep red and almost hypnotic.

In the deep red swirl, I saw Harrison’s face—cold, yet seductive.

His reflection shimmered in the glass, all sharp angles and shadows. I could almost hear his voice, low and dangerous.

He loosened his tie, leaned over, and wrapped his arms around me. His warm breath brushed my ear.

He smelled like cologne and exhaustion. When he bent down, I felt the heat of his body, the tension in his muscles.

"Still mad?"

His tone was teasing, but I heard the caution underneath. He knew better than to push too hard.

I said nothing, turning my head slightly to avoid him.

I stared straight ahead, jaw clenched. I wasn’t in the mood for his games.

Harrison followed, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips, gentle and careful.

He pressed a kiss to my knuckles, soft and deliberate. It was the kind of gesture that used to melt me. Not tonight.

"You already sent her to the hospital. Isn’t that enough?"

His voice was low, almost pleading. For a second, I saw the boy he used to be—the one who’d do anything to make me smile.

I pulled my hand away and slapped him, still smiling.

The sound cracked through the room. My palm stung, but it felt good. I held his gaze, daring him to react.

"Not enough."

I let the words drip with venom, refusing to back down.

His head snapped to the side from my slap. He gave a cold, hoarse laugh.

He touched his cheek, a bitter smile twisting his lips. "It’s Charlotte’s anniversary. Can you not make a scene?"

"She’s just a clueless girl. You’ve already sent her to the hospital—aren’t you satisfied yet?"

He sounded tired, like he’d aged ten years in a single night. But I wasn’t about to let him off the hook.

I just looked at him. Harrison seemed to understand something. He touched the beauty mark at the corner of his eye, giving a low, mocking laugh.

He traced the spot with his thumb, the way he always did when he was hiding something. "Or are you mad at me—for teaching that naïve college boy you’ve been doting on a lesson? Hm?"

I stayed silent, just staring at him. Harrison’s brows drew down, his anger dark and sharp.

His eyes flashed, jaw tight. The air between us crackled with old resentment.

"Say something, Savannah."

His voice was sharp, almost desperate. He hated silence—hated not knowing what I was thinking.

What was there to say? That our marriage was a joke? That he could be surrounded by girls outside, then come home and act like he was hopelessly in love?

I thought about all the things I could say, all the ways I could hurt him. In the end, I just stared, letting the silence do the talking.

Maybe because I’d truly loved him once, I knew better than anyone—there was no going back for us.

It was over, even if neither of us wanted to admit it. We were just too stubborn to let go.

I hated Harrison, and he hated me.

We were locked in this endless war, neither side willing to surrender. It was exhausting, but somehow, it felt safer than starting over.

So when I found out the college student I was sponsoring got hurt because of Harrison, I went straight to his company to confront him.

I marched into that glass-and-steel office building, heels clicking on the marble floor. People stared, but I didn’t care. I was on a mission.

The student hadn’t done anything wrong—Harrison was targeting me, not him. He shouldn’t have been dragged into it.

He was just a kid, barely out of high school. All he wanted was a shot at a better life. I was furious—at Harrison, at myself, at the whole damn world.

But I didn’t find him. Instead, I ran into a secretary with more guts than sense.

She was perched behind the reception desk, lipstick too red, attitude dialed up to eleven. She looked me up and down, smirking.

She strutted over in red heels, giving me a sultry look. God, the perfume hit me before she did.

Her perfume was so strong, I almost gagged. She leaned in, voice dripping with fake sweetness. "So you’re Mrs. Lowell? Doesn’t seem like much—no wonder Mr. Lowell doesn’t like coming home."

I was in a hurry, so I only asked her one thing:

I cut her off, voice flat. "What’s your relationship with Harrison?"

She flirted, tossing her long hair. "Of course, I’m Mr. Lowell’s girlfriend."

She twirled a strand of hair around her finger, eyes daring me to react. I almost laughed.

Once I got my answer, I slapped her without hesitation.

The sound echoed down the hallway. She gasped, hand flying to her cheek, mascara smudging as tears welled up.

I didn’t even use much force, but she played it up, crying and running headfirst into the elevator—straight to the hospital.

She staggered into the elevator, sobbing loud enough for everyone to hear. I watched the doors close, not feeling a shred of guilt.

Thinking of that secretary, my mood improved a little. I touched Harrison’s slightly reddened cheek.

I traced the mark my slap had left, a small, satisfied smile curling my lips. "I’m not mad. You had him followed, didn’t you? He’s just one of the many students I sponsor. It’s just charity."

Seeing his face relax a bit, I let a trace of mockery flash through my eyes, my words pointed.

I let my tone sharpen, just enough to sting. "Harrison, I’m not like you. I always keep my promises."

Then I changed the subject. "How’s that secretary of yours?"

I watched his reaction closely, searching for any hint of guilt. He just shrugged, as if it was all beneath him.

Harrison pulled me into his arms, casually taking my wine glass and sipping from it.

He held me close, the glass cool against my skin. I could feel his heartbeat, steady and strong. For a moment, I let myself relax.

"She’s fine. Just pretending—wants me to stand up for her, that’s all."

He rolled his eyes, voice dripping with disdain. "She’s not worth the trouble."

I nestled into his embrace, my voice soft, eyes gentle.

I let my head rest on his shoulder, breathing in his scent. "Will you? Stand up for her?"

Maybe it had been a while since I’d acted so docile—Harrison paused, then smiled, his eyes drawing me in.

He hesitated, then smiled—a real one, not the cold smirk he gave everyone else. For a second, it felt like old times.

"No. Savvy, it’s always just been us. Those other women are just for fun. How could they compare to you?"

His voice was soft, almost pleading. I wanted to believe him, but the words rang hollow.

"Savvy, if only you could always be like this. I don’t want to fight anymore."

He brushed a strand of hair from my face, his thumb lingering on my cheek. "Let’s stop hurting each other."

I smiled too, looking up into his deep, affectionate eyes, enunciating each word:

I held his gaze, letting the silence stretch. "What about Maribel?"

Almost before I finished speaking, his hand was around my throat.

His fingers tightened, panic flashing in his eyes. I could feel his pulse, wild and frantic.

He seemed nervous, muscles in his arms standing out as he asked, coldly,

His voice was low, dangerous. "You saw her? What did you do to her?"

I was done pretending. My sharp, long nails raked his arm, drawing beads of blood.

I dug my nails in, leaving red crescents behind. "What are you so anxious for? What could I possibly do to her?"

Harrison snapped out of it, loosening his grip, his tone flat—but I could hear how much he was protecting her.

He stepped back, rubbing his arm. "She scares easily. Don’t frighten her."

I looked at his handsome face and smiled indifferently.

I let my lips curl into a cold smile. "I didn’t do anything to her. She just cried in front of me all afternoon. Why, didn’t she run to you to complain?"

Harrison’s hand closed around my neck again, this time harder, making it hard for me to breathe.

His grip was iron, his eyes wild. For a second, I thought he might actually hurt me.

His eyes were dark, voice hoarse.

"Savannah, leave her alone."

My vision blurred. I pried his hand off, my heart aching like it was being sliced open.

I gasped for air, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. "Leave her alone? Harrison, do you know she’s pregnant? She knelt in our house begging me to let you go!"

Harrison froze, then suddenly let go and grabbed his phone.

He stared at me, stunned. Then he turned away, hands shaking as he fumbled with his phone.

As he dialed, I saw the worry and tenderness in his eyes.

For the first time, I saw fear in his eyes—not for me, but for her. It twisted something inside me.

"Mari, did she bully you? Are you okay?"

His voice was soft, gentle. I’d never heard him speak to anyone like that—not even me, not in years.

Maribel had just finished crying—her voice was still hoarse and timid.

I could hear her through the phone, her words muffled by tears. She sounded so small, so lost.

"Harrison, I’m sorry. I went to see your wife today. I just wanted to give the baby a family. I’m really sorry—I didn’t mean to disturb you two."

Her apology was shaky, full of guilt. I almost believed she meant it.

She sobbed on the other end. The cold, fierce look in Harrison’s eyes melted away as he coaxed her gently.

He whispered into the phone, voice soothing. "Mari, don’t cry. I’m not mad. I’ll come see you now, okay?"

He grabbed his clothes and started to leave, but suddenly I thought of my poor child.

I watched him gather his things, urgency in every movement. My heart twisted, old wounds reopening.

Harrison had hated the idea of our baby, but he was so worried about Maribel’s baby.

It wasn’t fair. Our baby had been a burden, a mistake. Hers was a miracle. The hypocrisy stung.

Why?

The question echoed in my mind, bitter and relentless. Why her? Why now?

Barefoot, I grabbed a wine glass and threw it at him, my voice hoarse.

The glass arced through the air, shattering against the wall. Red wine splattered across the hardwood, like blood.

"Harrison, I hate you!"

The words tore from my throat, raw and ugly. I meant every one of them.

The glass shattered on the floor, shards cutting his face.

A thin line of blood appeared on his cheek. He didn’t flinch. He just stared at me, eyes full of something I couldn’t name.

But he didn’t stop. He just looked back at me once.

He paused in the doorway, gaze lingering. For a moment, I thought he might say something. But he didn’t. He just left.

I knew I looked crazy, hysterical.

I caught my reflection in the window—wild eyes, smeared mascara, hair tangled. I barely recognized myself.

Otherwise, why would Harrison look at me with such pity?

He pitied me. That was the worst part. Not anger, not hatred—just pity. It made me want to scream.