The Unwanted Wife's Return (Ex-Husband Wants Me Back) novel Chapter 3

HANNAH'S POV:

A MONTH LATER:

The past few weeks had been some of the longest of my life. It felt like I was in a prison where no one even saw me, and Mrs. Martinez was the warden who'd decided I was guilty before I'd even had a trial.

I'd grown up feeling like I was never enough, always having to prove myself, always trying to earn love that never came. But here, it was so much worse. I felt invisible. Unwanted. Like a ghost haunting a house that would rather I just disappeared.

The Martinez mansion was huge, spotless, and cold in every way that mattered. It was filled with beautiful things and empty of warmth. It turned out his parents didn't even live here—they had their own estate across the city. They'd only planned on staying a week to meet Janet, to welcome her into the family, to get to know the girl they thought their son had chosen.

Instead, they got me.

After my parents and Janet had lied about what happened, after the Martinez family had actually found Janet tied up in the trunk of her car—looking properly disheveled and traumatized— from the cctv footage, I knew it took everything in Elijah and his family not to throw me out on the street.

I'd cried and tried to explain myself, but like always, no one was listening. My words didn't matter. They never had.

A few days after his parents arrived, I gathered enough courage to come downstairs for breakfast. I wasn't even sure if I was allowed to be there, but I couldn't stay locked in my room forever.

Elijah sat at the head of the long dining table, newspaper in one hand, coffee in the other. He was wearing a crisp suit, already dressed for work even though it was barely seven in the morning. He didn't look up when I walked in. In fact, he hadn't looked at me once since that morning after the wedding.

His mother, Mrs. Martinez, was seated to his right. She set her teacup down delicately and gave me the briefest glance. "You're not eating in your room today?"

I froze halfway to an empty chair. "I... I thought it would be polite to join the family."

She smiled, but there was no warmth in it. Only cold amusement. "How thoughtful. But you know what would have been truly polite? Marrying the right daughter to begin with."

My cheeks burned with shame. Mr. Martinez didn't even bother looking up from his own newspaper.

I stood there for another awkward moment, then quietly turned and left the room.

As I walked through the hallway, I could hear the maids whispering. They stopped talking the moment they saw me, but I'd heard enough. They all knew the story—or at least, the version they'd been told. How I'd schemed and manipulated and stolen my sister's place at the altar. How I'd locked poor, sweet Janet in a trunk and taken what was meant to be hers.

None of them knew the truth. And none of them cared to find out.

I spent most of my time in the guest room I'd been assigned. The master bedroom belonged to Elijah alone now, and I was grateful for that. Every time I saw that room, that bed, I felt sick to my stomach. The memories played on repeat in my head, and I couldn't make them stop.

I stared out the window a lot, watching the world continue on outside these walls. Sometimes I imagined what it would be like to just walk out the front door and keep walking. To disappear and start over somewhere no one knew my name or my family or the mess I'd been dragged into.

But I had nowhere to go. No money of my own. No friends who would take me in. I was completely trapped.

After another week passed, I tried again to make myself useful. I found Mrs. Martinez in the sitting room and gathered all my courage.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Martinez," I said quietly. "I was wondering... would it be okay if I helped around the house? Maybe with the accounts or organizing things? I'm good with numbers, and I'd like to contribute somehow."

She looked at me with genuine surprise, and then her expression shifted to disgust. "You want to touch our family's business now too? Isn't stealing my son enough?"

"I didn't mean it like that," I said quickly, feeling my face heat up. "I just thought... I'm living here, and I wanted to help. To earn my keep."

"You've done quite enough already, haven't you?" she said sharply. "Don't mistake breathing under our roof for being one of us. You have a few weeks left of this arrangement, and then you'll be gone. I suggest you use that time to stay out of everyone's way."

I shrank back, mumbling an apology. I never brought it up again.

That evening, after his parents had finally left to return to their own home, I found Elijah in the study. He was standing by the bookshelf with a glass of whiskey, flipping through what looked like a business file. I'd been building up the courage all day to try to talk to him. To explain. To make him understand that I wasn't who he thought I was.

"Elijah," I said softly from the doorway. "Can we please talk?"

He didn't look up. "There's nothing to talk about."

"I just... I want to apologize," I said, stepping into the room. "Even though I didn't ask for this situation, I'm sorry that you're stuck with me. I know this isn't what you wanted. But if you'd just listen to my side of things..."

He cut me off, his voice sharp and cold. "Don't pretend like you're the victim here. Who tied your sister up and left her in a trunk? Your own blood? How desperate were you?"

"I didn't do that," I whispered, feeling tears prick my eyes. "I swear to you, I didn't. I didn't even know who you were until my parents told me I was marrying you."

He let out a bitter laugh. "Right. Everyone's a victim until it's time to admit they enjoyed the rewards."

"What rewards?" I asked, and I couldn't keep the hurt out of my voice. "Being hated by everyone in this house? Sleeping with someone who thought I was someone else? Being treated like I'm invisible? You think I enjoy that?"

He set his glass down with a sharp click and walked toward me. He wasn't threatening, but everything about him felt cold. Detached. Like he was looking at a stranger he had no interest in knowing.

"You're here, aren't you?" he said flatly. "You're wearing the ring. You have the name. You stayed."

"I have nowhere else to go," I whispered, blinking hard to keep the tears from falling. "My family doesn't want me back. I have no money. I have nothing. Do you think I'd be here if I had any other choice?"

Something flickered across his face—maybe doubt, maybe just annoyance—but then it was gone. "Then stay out of my way for the next month. That's all I ask."

He walked past me, and the door slammed behind him with such force that I flinched.

I sank into the nearby armchair and pressed my palms against my eyes. I wouldn't cry. Not here. Not anymore. What was the point? Tears didn't change anything. They never had.

The days blurred together after that. Silent. Heavy. Bruising in ways that left no visible scars but hollowed me out from the inside.

It was quieter now that his parents were gone, which should have been a relief. But somehow it was worse. No one raised their voice at me anymore, but the cold indifference was just as painful. Every ignored greeting. Every time Elijah walked past me without even glancing in my direction. Every meal I ate alone while he worked late or went out with friends.

I was completely, utterly alone.

One night, about four weeks into the marriage, I was in my room reading when I heard Elijah's voice in the hallway. He was on the phone with someone.

"Yeah, I'll meet you at the usual place," he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. A genuine smile. The smile he'd never directed at me. "I need to get out of this house for a while. I'll be there in twenty."

I heard his bedroom door open, and carefully, quietly, I cracked my own door to peek out. He was getting ready to go out, putting on cologne, checking his reflection. He looked... happy. Or at least, happier than he ever looked when I was around.

Then his door swung open fully, and he saw me standing there.

His excited expression died immediately, replaced by a deep frown. He didn't say anything. He just walked past me like I was a piece of furniture.

"Be safe," I said quietly as he headed down the stairs.

He didn't look back. Didn't acknowledge me at all.

I closed my door and leaned against it, sliding down to the floor.

This was my life. This cold, empty existence. And it was breaking me piece by piece.

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