Married To My Husband’s Killer

I thought about our argument the entire drive home, my hands gripping the steering wheel harder than necessary.

It hadn’t started as an argument. Just a conversation that went wrong.

My husband wanted a child. Not someday—now. We had agreed to wait three years after marriage, but yesterday he told me he didn’t want to wait anymore. It had only been a year and a half since we married, and I panicked, not because we didn’t have time but because I couldn’t have a child.

So I told him we needed more time, and that we had all the time in the world to start a family.

I remembered the doctor's words: early ovarian insufficiency. A condition that made conceiving difficult. Uncertain. Maybe impossible.

I hadn’t had the courage to say it to my husband. I was terrified that once I did, I would see the love he has for me disappear.

So I hid behind time as an excuse.

He just looked at me for a long moment, something heavy passing through his gaze, before kissing my forehead and saying we’d talk later.

The house was quiet when I got home. Too quiet. I set my bag down, my chest tight with regret. I would tell him tonight, I decided. I would tell him everything. The condition. The fear. The shame. We would face it together.

I walked toward his office, rehearsing the words in my head.

I reached the door and lifted my hand to knock, then stopped when I heard voices that were not my husband’s.

My fingers curled slowly around the door knob, unease creeping up my spine. I leaned closer, telling myself it was business.

“Any last words?” I heard a man ask calmly.

My hand froze around the door knob.

“Tell my wife I love her,” comes my husband’s reply.

The sound of a gun shot came next, cutting through the air like it split my world in two.

My body went completely still.

I twisted the door handle open, praying it’s not what I think it is. My eyes trailed towards my husband as the door opened.

He was slumped in his chair, his head tilted at an uncomfortable angle with a bullet hole in the middle.

His eyes—eyes that had looked at me with love just this morning even after our argument—were empty now, staring past me.

The man I love.

My everything.

My world.

Gone.

My gaze drifted from my husband’s lifeless body to the man sitting across from him. My eyes widened. It's the city’s biggest CEO, Luciano Martinez.

He was relaxed—legs crossed, as if nothing extraordinary had just happened. His face was blank, unreadable, like he hadn’t just destroyed my life with a single pull of the trigger.

A piercing scream tore from my throat.

“Fuck,” the man muttered. “She wasn’t supposed to see this.”

My legs gave out beneath me, and I crawled toward my husband’s lifeless body, my hands trembling as I reached for him.

“No… no, please,” I sobbed. “Baby, wake up.”

I pressed my hands against his chest, begging for it to rise. For him to breathe. For this to be a nightmare I could wake up from.

Nothing.

“What the hell are you waiting for?” a powerful voice snapped from behind me. “Take her.”

Rough hands grabbed my arms, yanking me backward.

“No!” I screamed, fighting against them. “Please! My husband needs me!”

I thrashed wildly, my nails scraping uselessly against skin and fabric. Panic burned through my chest, stealing my breath.

“Shut her up.”

A large hand clamped over my mouth, muffling my screams. I kicked and struggled, but whoever held me was far stronger.

My eyes stayed locked on my husband as they dragged me away from him.

“She’s coming with me,” the killer said calmly.

Fear exploded inside my chest.

I tried to scream again—tried to beg—but the sound came out broken and useless. A cloth was pressed against my face, carrying a harsh, unfamiliar smell.

My vision was blurred.

The last thing I saw before the darkness took me was my husband’s lifeless eyes.

Then everything went black.

My eyes fluttered open, fear gripping me instantly.

For one brief second, my mind was blank.

Then everything came rushing back.

My husband was dead.

Even in the face of death, his last words echoed in my head, over and over again. He had thought of me in his final moments. Not himself. Not his fears. Me.

I was such a fool to believe humans had the luxury of time. I kept telling myself there would always be tomorrow, always another chance, always later. Now there was nothing. He died without even knowing the truth.

A broken sound tore from my throat as tears spilled freely down my face. My chest tightened until it hurt to breathe. I couldn’t save him. I hadn’t even said goodbye. I couldn’t tell him the truth.

I knew then—I wouldn’t be able to live without him.

That was… if I survived what Luciano had in store for me.

I forced myself out of bed, my legs trembling beneath me, and stumbled toward the door. I grabbed the handle and twisted it frantically.

Locked.

“No… please,” I sobbed, pounding against the door and shaking fists. When it didn’t open, my strength drained all at once. I slid down until I hit the hard floor.

I curled into myself, pressing my face against the ground as my body shook. My wedding ring felt unbearably heavy on my finger, a cruel reminder of everything I had lost.

“I love you,” I whispered into the silence, my voice barely there.

But he was gone.

And I was alone.

Or so I thought.