For the first time in weeks, Beatrice woke up feeling lighter. The air around the home seemed calmer, warmer—almost like the early days of her marriage when everything felt new and exciting. The necklace Sally had given her the previous evening still rested on her bedside table, shimmering in the soft morning light.
She touched it gently and smiled. Sally still cares, she thought. Maybe I was wrong about everything.
The past days had been emotionally draining—suspicion about Zaria, doubts about Sally, the secret investigation she had quietly begun. But now, after hearing his explanation and seeing his sincerity, she felt an unfamiliar peace.
She decided it was time to let go of the questions and focus on what she had: a stable marriage, a comfortable life, and a husband who seemed committed to their future.
---
The morning unfolded quietly. Beatrice moved through the kitchen preparing breakfast while Sally scrolled through the morning news on his tablet. "Honey, eggs or oats?" she asked.
"Eggs," he replied without looking up, but there was warmth in his tone.
When she placed the plate before him, he looked up and smiled. "Thank you."
It had been so long since they shared moments like this without tension. Beatrice sat opposite him, sipping her tea, feeling a sense of renewal. She studied his face, the way he focused on his tablet, and thought, This is what I need. Not secrets, not old wounds—just us.
But even as she tried to lock the door on her past, an unexpected image crept in—Johnson, her ex-husband, sitting in that restaurant at Ham Towers. She could still see the seriousness in his eyes, hear the way he said, "Why don't you say our daughter?" It had cut through her like a blade.
And with that thought came another memory, one she hadn't visited in years—how he used to hold her in the stillness of the night when life was simpler, how his rough hands used to trace her skin as if she were something fragile.
Beatrice blinked hard and shook her head slightly, trying to dismiss it. Why now? Why think about him like that after all this time?
---
After breakfast, Sally left for a meeting, leaving Beatrice alone in the house. She cleaned the kitchen, then sat by the window with a book, but her mind wasn't on the pages. Instead, it wandered to Johnson—his laugh, his scent, the way he used to whisper her name when they were alone.
Back then, life was different. There wasn't much money, but there had been passion. Every argument often ended in long, tender nights, where words were replaced by touch and forgiveness was made with love, not gifts.
A faint heat crept to her cheeks as she remembered one particular evening—the rain outside, the kerosene lamp flickering, and Johnson pulling her close. His kisses had been rough yet careful, the kind that made her feel wanted even when everything else in their world seemed broken.
Beatrice closed her eyes, gripping the edge of the sofa. Stop it, she told herself. You're married now. You chose Sally. You love Sally.
Yet the memories persisted, vivid and unsettling.
---
Later in the afternoon, she took a long bath, trying to wash away the thoughts that clung stubbornly to her. She wore one of Sally's favorite dresses, fixed her hair, and even added light perfume. When he returned home in the evening, she greeted him with a warmth he hadn't seen from her in weeks.
Sally noticed immediately. "You look happy," he said, kissing her cheek as he set down his briefcase.
"I am," she replied softly.
Dinner that evening was lively, full of laughter and soft jokes. Sally seemed pleased, unaware of the silent battle raging inside his wife's head—memories of one man while sitting across from another.
---
That night, after cleaning up, they sat in their bedroom watching a late-night comedy show. Sally reached for her hand and intertwined his fingers with hers. "I missed this," he said quietly.
Beatrice smiled faintly. "Me too."
When he leaned in to kiss her, she responded, letting herself sink into his embrace. She focused on his warmth, his scent, his touch, trying to anchor herself fully in the present. This is where you belong, she told herself.
But in the far corners of her mind, Johnson's face still lingered like an echo she couldn't silence.
---
Later, as Sally slept soundly beside her, Beatrice stared at the ceiling, wide awake. She traced the necklace around her neck and whispered to herself, "Let the past stay where it is."
But deep down, she knew the past had a way of showing up when least expected—uninvited, vivid, and far too real.