The sharp, venomous edge of Mary's voice sliced through the air like a dagger. "Hey, husband! Did you think I wouldn't find you?" The words hit Paul like a punch to the gut. His blood ran cold, and every inch of his body tensed. He froze, his wide eyes locked onto her figure standing in the doorway, a storm of fury swirling in her eyes. She was wearing a black dress, its fabric fluttering as if it, too, shared her anger. Her long, midnight-black hair framed her face, which was as pale as porcelain yet contorted with rage.
Paul's breath caught in his throat, his mouth dry as he stumbled backward. He had known this day would come, but he hadn't expected it to be like this—her voice, a low growl now, crawling under his skin, making him feel like a small, cornered animal.
"H-how did you find me?" he managed to stammer, his words thick with fear, his hands shaking at his sides. His body was rigid with terror, the adrenaline pumping through him like fire, but he was too paralyzed to move.
"I have my ways," she replied, her lips curling into a cruel smile. "You can't run from me forever." The words dripped from her mouth like acid, eroding whatever small trace of defiance Paul had left. She stepped into the room, each movement precise, calculated. With a flick of her wrist, the wind kicked the curtains aside, revealing her full presence—majestic, terrifying. The wind seemed to carry her anger, a tangible thing that gripped Paul in its icy embrace.
The moment she crossed the threshold, he could feel the suffocating weight of her fury pressing down on him. He gulped, his throat dry, the silence between them thick with tension. The storm inside her eyes was enough to make him feel smaller than he already did, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
Her voice rang out again, louder this time, and it sliced through the thick silence like glass shattering. "Now, tell me, Paul. Why didn't you come home for a month? Where the hell have you been?!" Her words were sharp, demanding, laced with a fury that made his knees feel weak.
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The excuse he had prepared, the reason he had convinced himself would be good enough, evaporated in the face of her anger. His throat constricted, suffocating him.
Her hands went to her hips, her fingers curling into fists, the veins in her neck popping with the intensity of her rage. Her eyes didn't leave his, pinning him in place as if they were shackles. "Well?! It better be a damn good reason, or I swear, Paul, you'll regret it."
Her voice, a low growl now, vibrated in his chest. His heart thudded so loudly, he could barely hear anything else. His palms were slick with sweat, his legs trembling, and all he could think of was the door—if he could just get out. He took a step back, his pulse in his throat. But Mary moved forward in an instant, blocking his way with the precision of a predator. Her body was a wall, her eyes like burning coals.
"Don't even think about it," she warned, her voice chillingly calm now, the kind of calm that made everything worse. Her gaze never left him. "If you try to run, I swear you'll regret it."
The words were a death sentence.
With one last, desperate breath, Paul spun and bolted toward the window, his feet pounding against the floorboards. He couldn't hear anything except the roar of his own heartbeat in his ears. With one swift movement, he hurled himself through the open window, hitting the ground with a sickening thud.
The world spun around him for a moment. His chest heaved, breath coming in ragged gasps. His mind screamed at him to keep running, to flee as far as he could. But even as his body moved, he could sense her behind him, feel her presence like a shadow chasing him.
"Paul!" a voice shouted from a distance, and it took a second for Paul to realize it was Alex. His face appeared over the edge of the window, wide with concern. "What the hell is going on?!"
But Paul didn't stop. He dashed back inside, his heart pounding in his ears, his body moving on instinct. He scrambled through the door, panting. "John!" he yelled, his voice hoarse. "John, she's here!"
A heavy silence fell over the room. Eyes turned toward the stairs, where Mary had appeared—her long black coat trailing behind her like a shadow, her eyes burning with fury. Her presence was like a dark cloud that filled the entire space, suffocating everyone in its wake.
Uncle Timmy, who had been watching the scene unfold, let out a dry chuckle, his voice shaking with nervous laughter. "Wait... so you're like this because of your wife?" he joked, though the humor was weak, almost desperate.
Paul's brother, John, who was standing beside him, leaned in close, his voice barely a whisper. "Good luck, man," he said, his eyes flicking to the woman standing at the top of the stairs. "She looks pissed. I don't think you're getting out of this one."
Paul's stomach twisted, and he felt his insides churn with dread. He was trapped. There was no escape now. No matter how fast he ran, no matter how many places he hid, she would find him. The weight of it settled over him, a crushing force, and for the first time, he wondered if there would be a point when even he couldn't outwit her fury.
He took a deep breath, his chest tight. He needed to think, needed to do something. But as Mary took another step toward him, her eyes dark with rage, he realized that no matter what he did, nothing would stop her now.
Her fury was unstoppable. And Paul had nowhere left to run.
Paul's voice cracked in desperation as he turned to his brother. "Please help me, forgive me!" He pointed frantically at John, his eyes wide with fear. "He told me to help him!"
John stood there, arms crossed, his face set in an emotionless mask. "No," he said simply, his voice cold, a stark contrast to the panic in Paul's eyes. "I'm not getting involved in this mess."
John turned to his brother, pleading, his hands trembling. "Brother, please! Spare me. I can't handle her. You know I can't. But you… you can. She's your wife, man. Go to her. Talk to her. Do something!"
The words barely left his mouth before a sharp voice cut through the room.
"Guys, stop it already!" Mia stood up, the irritation in her voice unmistakable as she glared at the two men. Her patience had worn thin from the endless bickering and chaos, the tension building to an unbearable point.
She turned toward Inspector John, her face softening, the anger in her tone replaced with worry. "Any news on my mama?" she asked, her eyes searching his face for any sign of hope.
John hesitated for a moment, as though weighing his words. "Yes it seems we need more information,Mia. But we're doing everything we can."
Mia's shoulders slumped with the weight of the uncertainty, and she looked away, her expression hardening once more. Paul, standing by the window, could feel the tension in the room, the undercurrent of raw emotions that made every word spoken feel like a trap.
But it was Mary, who had been silently watching from the corner, that caught his attention. As her eyes landed on Mia's face, something shifted in her expression—an almost imperceptible softening of her features.
Mia's face, usually a mask of composure, betrayed the cracks in her resolve. The worry for her mother, the weight of everything that had happened in the past few weeks, seemed to finally break through. She stood there, her hands trembling as she fought to hold back the tears. But even as the tears threatened to spill, she forced herself to stand tall, to not let anyone see how vulnerable she truly was.
Mary, whose anger had simmered quietly this whole time, took a step forward. The softness in her gaze turned to concern, a rare tenderness flickering in her eyes.
"Mia," she said gently, her voice uncharacteristically calm. "We'll find her. I promise you."
The words felt like a lifeline thrown into the storm. Mia's breath hitched, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to believe, even just for a moment, that there was hope.
Meanwhile, Paul, still feeling the weight of his own situation, could only watch from the sidelines. He knew his own problems—his own marriage—were far from over, but seeing Mia's pain and wife's unexpected kindness shifted something in him. It made him realize that there were bigger things to worry about than his own fears.
"John..." Paul began, his voice raw. "What am I supposed to do? She won't stop until she gets what she wants."
John didn't respond right away. His gaze flicked over to Mary, who had returned her focus to Mia, and then to Paul. Finally, he spoke in a low, almost detached voice. "You've got to face her, Paul. There's no running anymore."
The words hit Paul like a slap. He had been running for weeks—hiding, dodging, trying to escape the one person he feared most. But now, it seemed, there was no place left to hide.
Mia, still standing by Inspector John, looked over at Paul, her eyes meeting his for a brief moment. There was something in her gaze—something raw and vulnerable—that made him pause. She wasn't just concerned for her mother anymore. She was concerned for him too.
"Paul," she said softly, her voice low but steady. "We're all in this together. We'll figure it out."
But Paul wasn't sure how to believe that. How could anyone truly understand the storm raging inside him? How could they know what it felt like to have someone you loved and feared in equal measure breathing down your neck, pushing you to the edge?
He turned away, retreating toward the door, his mind spinning in a thousand different directions. He couldn't run anymore. But could he face her?
A part of him wasn't sure he was ready. Not yet.
And then, through the haze of his thoughts, he heard Mary's voice again.
"Paul, we'need to talk her voice low and relaxed.
For a moment, he allowed himself to believe her. And in that moment, he realized—maybe, just maybe—there was still hope for him after all.
In the reading room, Mary held Paul tightly, her arms wrapped around him as if she could anchor him to the moment. "It's okay," she whispered, her voice soothing but trembling with her own mix of emotions. "I'm fine. How have you been?"
Paul couldn't hold back the tears any longer. His voice cracked as he pulled her closer. "I missed you," he choked out, his chest rising and falling in shaky breaths.
The weight of everything—the fear, the guilt, the endless running—flooded him all at once. He cried as he clung to her, his hands trembling on her back. It felt like the only thing keeping him grounded was the warmth of her embrace.
Mary felt his panic, his breath ragged against her neck, and she tightened her hold, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. She could feel his heart racing, as if it were a reflection of his inner worries.
After a long, silent moment, Paul pulled back just enough to look at her. His tear-streaked face mirrored the pain that had been consuming him. "You scared me," he whispered, his voice hoarse. His hands cupped her face, his touch gentle but desperate, as if he was trying to make sure she was real. "I thought I'd lost you. I don't know what I would've done without you."
Mary's heart clenched, her own eyes welling up with tears at the intensity of his words. But she forced a soft smile, brushing away his tears. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere," she whispered back, her voice thick with emotion.
Paul swallowed hard, trying to steady himself. Then, almost as if a weight had been lifted, he spoke again, his tone softer but filled with a new kind of urgency. "I know Mia's mama. They truly look alike. Please... help her. She needs us."
Mary's eyes widened slightly, and the concern in her face deepened. She nodded slowly, her hand reaching for his, squeezing it tightly. "I will. We'll figure this out, Paul. I promise."
Mary's mind she looks like someone I know and I feel I should protect her! Friend I pray you're safe. I miss you.
Paul smiled faintly, his heart aching but relieved to have her by his side. He kissed her forehead softly, the gesture gentle yet filled with all the words he couldn't express. "Thank you," he whispered against her skin.