The Unwanted Wife's Return (Ex-Husband Wants Me Back) novel Chapter 4

HANNAH'S POV:

The days blurred into weeks. And I faded with them.

I stopped counting how long I'd been in the Martinez mansion. Same walls. Same silence. Same cold shoulders. Nothing changed except me. I was getting quieter. Smaller. Like I was slowly disappearing.

The only bright spot had been that one moment with the cake. After that, I'd made it a point to bake something every few days, leaving it in the kitchen for Elijah. He never thanked me. Never acknowledged it. But Mrs. Cheng would tell me quietly that he'd eaten whatever I made.

It was pathetic, really. Clinging to such tiny crumbs of recognition. But it was all I had.

I'd also started spending more time in the garden. The gardener, an elderly man named Thomas, had shown me how to tend to the roses and the herb garden. There was something peaceful about working with the soil, watching things grow. It made me feel less useless.

I still hadn't spoken to Elijah properly since that day in the study, weeks ago now.

He came home late every single night. I'd found myself sitting in the living room, reading books from his extensive library, waiting for him. I told myself I was just being a responsible wife, making sure he got home safely. But deep down, I knew the truth.

I was lonely. Desperately, achingly lonely.

Sometimes he came home drunk. Sometimes he was just distant and cold. He never looked at me. He'd just walk past me and head straight to his room, usually with a bottle of something expensive in his hand.

He was too handsome to be drinking himself into oblivion every night. But then again, maybe it was my fault. Maybe marrying me had driven him to it.

Though, he'd been drunk on our wedding night too. So maybe it wasn't all about me.

One night, I found another note on the kitchen counter, scrawled in his sharp handwriting: Don't touch the wine in the cellar. It's not for you.

I'd only had one glass of wine one evening while reading. He must have noticed. He noticed everything, apparently, except me.

The isolation was getting to me. I'd started talking to myself while writing in a journal Mrs. Cheng had given me. I was scared I was going crazy. Scared that if I stayed in this house much longer, I'd lose whatever was left of myself.

But then there were those small moments. Like when I made him that chocolate cake and he'd actually eaten it. Or when I burned my hand and he'd asked what happened, even if his voice had been flat and emotionless.

Maybe he wasn't entirely made of stone. Maybe there was a part of him that could see me as something other than a scheming liar.

Tonight, I was lying in bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. It was past midnight and Elijah still wasn't home. I'd given up waiting on the couch. My body was tired from a day of gardening, my hands slightly dirty despite scrubbing them.

The moonlight crept through the window, casting long shadows across the room.

I imagined what it would be like to just vanish. To walk out the door and never look back. To find somewhere in the world where no one knew my name or my shame.

But I had no money. No friends. No one who cared if I lived or died.

Not even myself anymore.

I must have fallen asleep at some point because I don't remember closing my eyes. But I definitely remember how I woke up.

The door to my room slammed open. Hard. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet.

I shot up in bed, my heart jumping into my throat.

"Elijah?" I blinked, confused and disoriented.

He stood in the doorway, swaying slightly. He was clearly drunk—his collar was open, his hair was messy, his eyes were unfocused and bloodshot. He didn't say anything. He just stood there, staring at me, breathing heavily.

"I thought you weren't coming home tonight," I said cautiously, pulling the blanket up to my chest. Something about the way he was looking at me made alarm bells ring in my head.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The click of the lock made my pulse spike.

"Elijah..." I said carefully, my heart starting to race. "Are you okay?"

He didn't answer. He just walked toward the bed with deliberate, unsteady steps.

And then he was on me.

I barely had time to process what was happening before his weight was pinning me down against the mattress.

"Stop—wait," I gasped, panic flooding through my entire body. "You're drunk. Please, you need to—"

He kissed me, harsh and without any warmth, without any tenderness. His hands were rough, grabbing at me like I was an object, not a person.

"I'm your wife," I whispered desperately, trembling beneath him. "But not like this. Please, not like this."

He didn't hear me. Or he didn't care.

I tried to push him away, but he was so much stronger than me. The smell of alcohol rolled off him in waves, and I realized with horrible clarity that he wasn't seeing me. Not really. He was lost in whatever demons were chasing him tonight.

"Please," I begged one more time, tears starting to stream down my face. "Elijah, please stop."

But he didn't stop.

I went still. I stopped fighting. Because I realized something in that moment, something that shattered whatever tiny piece of hope I'd been clinging to:

He didn't see me. He never had. And he never would.

I wasn't a person to him. I was just a body. A convenient outlet for his anger and frustration and whatever else he was feeling. I was the shadow of the girl he actually wanted. A mistake he was forced to live with. A punishment.

I wasn't even someone he acknowledged as human. I was nothing.

As he took what he wanted, as I lay there with tears sliding down into my hair, I heard him mutter something against my neck.

"I thought this was what you wanted," he said, his voice slurred and bitter. "You're my wife, aren't you? I can do whatever I want with you. Isn't that what you schemed for? To be Mrs. Martinez? To have access to all of this?"

His words cut deeper than anything physical could.

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