Unmatched Wife: Not His To Claim Anymore novel Chapter 50

Chapter 50

MATTHEW

“Remove her things?” The suggestion felt like another betrayal, getting rid of Blanca’s things even after death. “But those are all he has left of her. He should hold onto them, not get rid of them.”

“Right now, they’re reminders of his perceived failure. Once we’ve made progress, once he’s processed his grief in healthier ways, we can slowly reintroduce memories of his mother. But right now, he needs space from the triggers.”

I took the referrals she handed me, one for a trauma therapist for adults, one for a psychiatric evaluation for Theo to rule out medication needs, one for a family therapist to help us rebuild our relationship.

So many referrals. So many professionals needed to fix what I’d broken.

“Alpha Morrison?” Dr. Vance called as I reached the door. “One more thing. The woman living in your home–Mia, was it?”

“Yes?”

“Theo associates her with his mother’s death. Whether that’s fair or not isn’t the point. In his mind, Mia is part of why his mother is gone. Having her in the house, trying to take a maternal role…” She trailed off delicately. “It’s not helping. If anything, it’s reinforcing his trauma.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“That you reconsider sending Mia out of the house…. temporarily of course. At least until Theo has made some progress in his grief and had gotten used to the truth that bad things happened and it’s not his fault. He needs stability right now, not confusion about who’s supposed to fill the maternal role.”

I left the office with Theo’s small hand in mine, Dr. Vance’s words echoing in my head.

*Remove the triggers. Remove Mia. Give Theo space to heal.*

But how could I ask Mia to leave when I’d just sacrificed my wife to save her life? When she’d given up everything to be with me?

The guilt was crushing me and I had no idea how to deal with it.

That evening, after Mia had gone to bed, I found myself standing in Bianca’s closet at 3 AM, surrounded by her things that I always took for granted and never appreciated.

The designer dresses I’d bought her hung in neat rows, clothes that never suited her but I bought it regardless, dressing her like a doll, as I planned on molding her to be the kind of woman Mia was. So I wouldn’t be afraid of showing her off to people.

But who had she actually been? What had she wanted? What had she dreamed about when she wasn’t playing the role I’d forced on her?

I moved to the shelf where she’d kept her medical journals. Most were gone, removed when she’d been purging the house of her belongings.

But one remained, tucked behind a box of shoes she’d never worn. A small, leather–bound journal that looked older than the others, more worn.

I pulled it down and opened it carefully, half expecting it to fall apart in my hands.

The first page was dated four years ago. Our wedding day.

*Today I married Matthew Morrison,* she’d written down in that familiar writing of hers‘. *I’m not sure he loves me. I’m not

something real.*

My throat tightened as I continued reading.

*He bought me this dress for the ceremony. It’s beautiful—too beautiful, really. Impractical. The kind of thing you wear once and then store away forever because it was impractical for daily wear. But I smiled and thanked him because that’s what you do when someone gives you a gift, even if it’s not what you wanted or needed.*

*I wanted to wear my mother’s dress. The one she wore when she married my father, simple and elegant and meaningful. But Matthew said it wasn’t appropriate for a Luna. That I needed to look the part of someone fit enough to be his Luna, that everyone there will see a shabby old dress and not see the sentiment behind it, and he won’t be gossiped about, for not being able to buy a common wedding dress for his Luna.

*So I wore his dress and said my vows and promised to be what he needed.*

*And I pressed a flower from my bouquet in this journal, to remember the hope I felt in that moment. The hope that maybe, we could be happy.*

I turned the page and found it–a pressed white rose, still retaining some of its delicate beauty despite four years in darkness.

And beneath it, written in the same careful hand: *Hope.*

One word. One fragile, foolish word that represented every she wanted to get out of this marriage.

I sank to the floor of the closet, the journal clutched to my chest, and finally let myself break.

Not quiet tears or controlled grief, but ugly sobs that tore through my chest like claws. Because I’d had a wife who’d married me with hope. Who’d tried to love me despite everything. Who’d pressed a flower in a journal to mark what could have been the beginning of what she’d believed could be a real partnership.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify