The Second Wife

The first time he spotted her, she stood beneath the archway on the Rue de Rivoli, the Eiffel Tower outlined in the dimming Parisian twilight behind her. At first glance, she didn’t seem remarkable, but there was something about her posture—graceful yet elusive—that caught his attention. When their gazes locked, a spark ignited in his chest, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in ages.

“You look so familiar,” he said, flashing a practiced smile.

She tilted her head, a playful smile emerging. “That’s the oldest line in the book.”

Yet, she didn’t just walk away.

Their romance blossomed like a storm, sweeping them into candlelit dinners, secret kisses by the Seine, and whispered confessions over glasses of Bordeaux. She was unlike anyone he’d known before—warm yet enigmatic, tender yet distant. By the time he proposed just two months later, he was convinced that fate had handed him a second chance. A chance to move beyond the past, to love without the shadows that had once haunted him.

He took her back to England, to his sprawling estate on the outskirts of London. The grand mansion, with its soaring towers and twisting corridors, had previously belonged to his first wife. But she was gone now—dead. A tragic accident, nothing more. That’s how he explained it to everyone. That’s how he comforted himself.

At first, everything felt surreal. She glided through the house with effortless elegance, filling its emptiness with joy, music, and the scent of jasmine. But soon, the dream began to sour.

It started with little things—an offhand remark, a familiar mannerism. The way she clinked her fork against her plate before taking a bite. The precise rhythm of her fingers drumming on the leather armrest. A tune she hummed absentmindedly as she roamed the halls. His late wife used to do all these things.

He told himself it was merely coincidence. Perhaps a quirk of memory. Nothing more.

But the discomfort grew.

He began to notice other unsettling details, impossible ones. She spoke of things she had no right knowing—intimate, private aspects of his past marriage. She knew which drawer housed his cufflinks before she ever saw it. She identified the locked study at the end of the hall as belonging to his late wife, even though he had never mentioned it.

Then, the nights became different.

He would awaken in the dark to find her standing over him, her face barely illuminated by the moonlight. She would watch, silent and still. The first time it happened, he thought it was a figment of his imagination. The second time, he knew it was all too real.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice thick with slumber and a creeping sense of dread.

She remained silent. After an eternity, she simply turned and slipped back into bed, curling against him as though nothing had transpired.

By morning, she acted as if the night had been undisturbed. But he had seen her. He could feel her presence lingering, her breath barely disturbing the air.

The mansion, once a sanctuary, began to feel like a cage. The walls seemed to encroach closer, the hallways stretched endlessly, shadows pooling in corners where none should gather.

And then, one evening over dinner, she posed the question he had dreaded the most.

“How did she die? Your first wife?”

Her tone was gentle, curious, but it held an undercurrent—something sharp, akin to the edge of a knife.

His fingers tightened around his wine glass. “Why do you want to know?”

She tilted her head, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her face. “No particular reason.”

The unease clawed at him. The room felt too warm, the candlelight too harsh. “Who are you?” he rasped.

And in that flash, the truth dawned on him.

Her face, her gestures, the way she understood things only his late wife could have known—it all fell into place. He had seen her before, but not in Paris. Not on the night he believed fate had stepped in.

She had been in his late wife’s photo albums.

Not an unfamiliar face..

A friend. Her Best Friend !!! 

His wife’s closest confidante. The one she had shared her fears with, the one she had trusted with her deepest insecurities. The one she had confided in about his betrayals, his gambling, his debts. The life insurance policy that lingered over her thoughts.

It had never been a chance encounter in Paris. It had been a carefully crafted scheme. Executed with precision.

“What do you want?” he breathed, his voice barely a whisper.

She stood, wordless, extending a hand. The candlelight flickered against her dark eyes, and something about them—something bottomless and knowing—made his stomach drop. Still, as if compelled by something unseen, he rose. She led him through the halls, her touch cold against his wrist, guiding him down the twisting corridors he had once known so well.

Down.

The stairs creaked beneath them, the air growing damp and heavy with age. He knew where she was leading him even before they reached the last step.

The basement.

The room where it had happened.

His breath came in shallow gasps now, memories clawing at the edges of his mind. His first wife’s cries. The way she had stumbled, her hand grasping the railing too late. The sickening snap of her body against the stone floor below.

An accident.

That’s what he told himself.

She stopped before the door and turned to face him. Her fingers hovered over the handle, but she did not open it—not yet. She leaned in, close enough that he could feel the whisper of her breath against his ear.

“Justice,” she murmured.

And then, with a final, deliberate movement, she shoved him inside and shut the door.

The lock clicked into place, and darkness swallowed him…

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