Unmatched Wife: Not His To Claim Anymore novel Chapter 39

Chapter 39

MATTHEW

I stood in Bianca’s closet like a man surveying the ruins of a life he’d destroyed, surrounded by evidence of my failures as a husband.

Designer dresses hung in neat rows–the emerald silk gown I’d insisted she wear to the Alpha Summit, the champagne cocktail dress for the Winter Gala, the burgundy evening wear for countless pack functions. All expensive. All chosen by me. All utterly impractical for the life she’d actually been living.

My fingers traced over the fabric, each piece a monument to my selfishness. I’d wanted a Luna who looked the part, who could stand beside me at formal events and make the right impression. I’d spent thousands on clothes that would transform her from a rogue healer into someone worthy of being seen at my side.

But she’d been a doctor. A healer who spent twelve–hour shifts on her feet, who needed comfortable shoes and practical clothes and pockets for medical supplies. And what had I given her? Stiletto heels that still sat in their boxes, unworn. Silk that couldn’t withstand the demands of her actual job. A wardrobe designed to mold her into what I wanted instead of supporting who she actually was.

Her real work shoes were gone–the sensible flats she’d worn until the soles were thin, the sneakers she’d bought with her own money because they didn’t hurt after hours of rounds. Everything practical, everything authentically hers, had vanished.

I moved to her dresser, opening drawers with hands that shook. Her medical textbooks–the worn volumes she’d studied from, the journals she’d annotated in the margins–all gone. The shelf where she’d kept them stood empty, a bare space that accused me more loudly than words ever could.

Her mother’s jewelry box sat on top of the dresser, and I reached for it with something like hope. Maybe there’d be photos inside, something personal she’d kept, some piece of her I could hold onto.

Empty.

The velvet compartments where her mother’s rings and necklaces had lived held nothing but air. She’d taken them. Had systematically removed every piece of her past, every connection to her real life, leaving behind only the expensive costume I’d dressed her in.

The realization hit me like a physical blow: Bianca had been checking out of our marriage long before I’d strapped her to that table. She’d been preparing to leave, had already mentally separated herself from this life, from me.

And I’d been too blind to see it.

I stumbled to the bed–our bed, though I’d barely slept in it for months–and tried to remember. Tried to picture her face clearly, the exact shade of her eyes, the way her smile had looked back when she’d still smiled at me.

But the memories were fragmented, incomplete. Like trying to hold water in my hands.

The family photo album. That would help. I’d made her compile it during our first year of marriage, had thought it would be a nice tradition to document our life together. Where had she kept it?

I searched the bedroom with increasing desperation. The bookshelf in the living room–empty space where it used to sit. The hall closet–nothing. The office-

And then I remembered.

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The fire in the backyard. The night I’d dragged her to the hospital, I’d found her burning things. I’d been so angry, so focused on getting to Mia, that I hadn’t paid attention to what exactly she was destroying.

The photo album. She’d burned our family photo album.

Along with everything else I’d ever given her.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, my head in my hands, and felt something crack inside my chest. She’d been erasing herself from our life, destroying evidence of our marriage, preparing for an exit I’d been too arrogant to see coming.

My phone sat heavy in my pocket, and I pulled it out with shaking hands. Photos. I had to have photos of her. Thousands of pictures from four years of marriage.

I opened the gallery and started scrolling.

Mia and me at the botanical gardens. Mia and me at the beach. Mia and Theo building sandcastles. Mia laughing at something I’d said. Mia, Mia, Mia.

I scrolled faster, searching desperately for Bianca’s face. There had to be something. Wedding photos. Pictures from Theo’s birth. Holiday celebrations.

But there was nothing.

Just Mia. Hundreds, thousands of photos with Mia, documenting every moment of her bucket list, every activity we’d shared, every smile and laugh and tender moment.

And then I remembered.

Three weeks ago. Mia had mentioned my phone was running out of storage. Had suggested we delete old photos to make room for new memories. I’d handed her my phone without a second thought, trusting her to manage it.

She’d deleted Bianca.

Systematically, thoroughly, completely removed my wife from my digital existence to make room for more pictures of herself.

And I’d let her.

I threw the phone across the room, heard it hit the wall with a satisfying crack, and immediately phone had been my last hope of seeing Bianca’s face again. Now it was broken, just like everything else I’d touched.

“MAMA! I WANT MAMA!”

1. it. That

Theo’s scream cut through the house like a knife, raw and anguished and utterly devastating. I stumbled out of the bedroom and down the hall to his room, where my son sat in the middle of his bed, surrounded by toys he wasn’t playing with, tears streaming down his face.

“Buddy, please-“I started, but he was already screaming again.

“BRING HER BACK! BRING MAMA BACK!”

“I can’t.” The words tasted like ash. “Theo, I can’t. She’s-”

“I WANT HER!” He threw a stuffed animal at me, his face red and blotchy with grief. “I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean I wanted a new mommy! I want MY mommy! MINE!”

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