Anne Knight's POV
I was so close—so close to a glorious orgasm, my body was trembling with anticipation.
"I'm going to cum! I'm going to cu..." My voice faltered as my phone rang, distracting me and shattering the moment. Irritated, I grabbed it without checking the caller ID and answered sharply—almost angrily.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. Knight?" The voice on the other end was unfamiliar, calm, it was almost clinical.
"Yes, who's this?" I gasped, still breathless.
"This is Officer Ramirez. I'm calling about your husband."
I felt a knot form in my stomach. In all my years of marriage, Marcus had never been arrested, which only meant something far worse had happened. And even if he had been, they'd have let him speak to me directly.
"My husband? What happened?" I whispered, fear creeping into my voice.
"There's been an accident. I'm very sorry, ma'am, but he didn't make it. We need you to come to the hospital to confirm his identity."
The phone slipped from my fingers as I stumbled away from the bed. My knees buckled, forcing me to sit. Just minutes ago, they had been weak for a different reason—one filled with pleasure. Now, they trembled from devastation.
I peeled myself away from Liam, the man lying beside me, and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the phone as if it might take back the words. It didn't. The officer's voice still echoed in my head, steady and undeniable. My chest tightened—I was struggling to breathe, panic setting in.
Behind me, Liam shifted uncomfortably. "Everything okay?" His voice was soft, careful, but I could feel the tension with it.
I turned my head, meeting his worried gaze. His tousled hair and flushed face were reminders of what we had been doing only moments ago. The guilt hit me hard, but I couldn't afford to process that now.
"It's my husband," I murmured, my voice shaking. "There's been an accident. He's... gone."
Liam's eyes widened. He sat up, gripping the sheets around his waist. "What? Are you sure?"
I nodded numbly. "The officer said I need to go to the hospital to confirm… to confirm it's him." My voice broke on the last word.
Liam ran a hand through his hair, staring at the floor. He looked lost, unsure of what to say. "I'm so sorry, Anne. Do you want me to come with you?"
For a second, I considered it. I could use the support. But I couldn't just show up at the hospital with the man I'd been cheating with for months. "No," I said quickly. "You can't. That would just make everything worse."
He frowned, leaning forward. "Are you sure? You shouldn't be alone right now."
"I'm not alone," I snapped, then sighed, softening my tone. "I'll have Harold drive me. It's better this way."
I forced myself to my feet and crossed the room naked, grabbing my coat from the closet. My hands shook as I pulled it on. Liam watched me, his expression unreadable, though I saw traces of concern—and something else. Guilt, maybe.
"Look, if you need anything, just call me," he said carelessly as he got dressed.
I barely nodded, too consumed by the weight pressing down on me. I started toward the stairs but paused, glancing back at him one last time. Even in this moment of tragedy, I couldn't help but take in his striking features—the broad chest, the way the light caught his jawline. My body still ached from him, but I had to push it away. My husband was lying in a hospital morgue, waiting to be identified.
As I descended the staircase, my fingers brushed against the garland draped along the banister. The faint scent of pine filled the air—a reminder that it was Christmas. I reached the door and looked back one final time. Liam stood at the top of the stairs, now fully dressed.
"Take care of yourself," he said quietly. The confusion was gone from his voice, completely replaced with indifference.
I swallowed hard and stepped into the cold. Snowflakes drifted through the air, settling on my coat. Harold was waiting by the car, his face neutral, but his sharp eyes scanning me. He didn't know yet.
"St. James Hospital," I said, climbing into the back seat.
The car pulled away, weaving through streets glittering with holiday lights and music. Everything felt too bright, too alive, mocking the grief clawing at my chest. My mind replayed the last conversation I had with Marcus. I'd never get to make things right now.
"Is everything okay, ma'am?" Harold's voice pulled me back.
Harold, a man in his mid-fifties, had been my chauffeur for years. He knew about my affairs—he had even been one of them once. He never spoke of it, never judged. He knew better.
"Just drive," I muttered, and the car fell into silence once more.
The hospital smelled of antiseptic and quiet grief. A nurse met me at the entrance, leading me through sterile hallways. The air was too clean, too controlled. It unsettled me.
Two officers waited in a dimly lit room. One of them, presumably Officer Ramirez, stood as I entered.
"Mrs. Knight," he said, his voice professional but not unkind. "I'm really sorry about your husband."
I wanted to answer. I wanted to scream. Instead, I just nodded, afraid that if I spoke, the grief would swallow me whole.
I followed him into a room where my husband lay beneath a white sheet. The air felt thick, suffocating. Ramirez pulled the sheet back.
Marcus's face was still, peaceful—too peaceful. It didn't feel real. My throat tightened, and I hesitated before stepping closer.
"That's him," I whispered.
The nurse gave me a brief, sympathetic glance before stepping out. Ramirez placed a small bouquet of pink roses, a vinyl record, and a worn envelope on the table beside me.
"These were found in the car," he said evenly.
My fingers brushed over the flowers—the petals were slightly wilted but still beautiful. Then, my eyes fell on the envelope. My name was scrawled across the front in Marcus's handwriting.
I didn't open it. I just held it.
"There was a damaged Lego set, two toy trucks, and a dollhouse as well," Ramirez added. "But they were badly crushed."
A broken sob escaped me. He had bought gifts—for the kids.
Ramirez gave a respectful nod and stepped out, leaving me alone. I stood there, staring at the envelope, at the flowers, at the weight of what this moment meant.
Today was supposed to be our tenth wedding anniversary—the only one Marcus had ever remembered. He had spent so much of our marriage lost in his work, chasing success, that he had forgotten the little things. But not today. Today, he had remembered.
He had planned a surprise.
But instead, he was gone.