986 Nights of Betrayal

Dorine Koestler

Romance | Completed

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For 986 nights, my marriage bed had not been my own. My husband, Corbett Ewing, heir to a New York real estate empire, was haunted by a ghost, and that ghost' s sister, Ivana, was my tormentor. Every night, she' d scratch at our door, claiming nightmares, and Corbett would let her in, laying a spare duvet for her in our master bedroom. One night, Ivana shrieked, pointing at me, "She tried to kill me! She snuck in while I was sleeping and choked me!" Corbett, without a second thought, yelled at me, "Jenna! What did you do?" He didn' t even look at me for my side of the story. Later, he tried to apologize with a macaron, my favorite pistachio. But it was filled with almond paste, to which I was deathly allergic. As my throat closed up and my vision tunneled, Ivana shrieked again, claiming a panic attack over online comments. Corbett, faced with my dying gasps and her fake hysterics, chose her. He carried her away, leaving me alone to save myself. He never came back to the hospital. He sent his assistant to discharge me. When I returned home, he tried to appease me, but then asked me to give my father' s last gift, my perfume organ, to Ivana for her "design studio." I refused, but he took it anyway. The next morning, Ivana "accidentally" shattered a bottle of my father' s custom scent, the last physical piece of him I had. I looked at Corbett, my hands bleeding, my heart shattered. He pulled Ivana behind him, shielding her from me, his voice cold, "That' s enough, Jenna. You' re hysterical. You' re upsetting Ivana." In that moment, the last shred of hope died. I was done. I accepted an offer to be a head perfumer in France, renewed my passport, and planned my escape.

Revenge Divorce Kickass Heroine Second chance Personal growth

Chapter 22

01-06 21:35

Chapter 1

For 986 nights, my marriage bed had not been my own.

My husband, Corbett Ewing, heir to a New York real estate empire, was haunted by a ghost, and that ghost' s sister, Ivana, was my tormentor. Every night, she' d scratch at our door, claiming nightmares, and Corbett would let her in, laying a spare duvet for her in our master bedroom.

One night, Ivana shrieked, pointing at me, "She tried to kill me! She snuck in while I was sleeping and choked me!"

Corbett, without a second thought, yelled at me, "Jenna! What did you do?" He didn' t even look at me for my side of the story.

Later, he tried to apologize with a macaron, my favorite pistachio. But it was filled with almond paste, to which I was deathly allergic.

As my throat closed up and my vision tunneled, Ivana shrieked again, claiming a panic attack over online comments. Corbett, faced with my dying gasps and her fake hysterics, chose her. He carried her away, leaving me alone to save myself.

He never came back to the hospital. He sent his assistant to discharge me. When I returned home, he tried to appease me, but then asked me to give my father' s last gift, my perfume organ, to Ivana for her "design studio."

I refused, but he took it anyway. The next morning, Ivana "accidentally" shattered a bottle of my father' s custom scent, the last physical piece of him I had.

I looked at Corbett, my hands bleeding, my heart shattered. He pulled Ivana behind him, shielding her from me, his voice cold, "That' s enough, Jenna. You' re hysterical. You' re upsetting Ivana."

In that moment, the last shred of hope died.

I was done.

I accepted an offer to be a head perfumer in France, renewed my passport, and planned my escape.

Chapter 1

It was the 986th night.

For 986 nights, my marriage bed had not been my own. It had not truly been ours.

The sound was faint at first, a soft scratching at the mahogany door of our master bedroom. It was a sound I knew better than my own heartbeat.

My husband, Corbett Ewing, stirred beside me. He was the heir to a New York real estate empire, a man whose name was etched onto half the skyscrapers in the city. But in this room, he was just a man haunted by a ghost.

"Jenna," he whispered, his voice thick with sleep and a familiar, weary dread. "She' s here."

I didn' t answer. I just kept my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. It was a useless defense I had perfected over the last three years.

The door creaked open.

A small figure, shrouded in a silk robe that belonged to Corbett' s dead fiancée, Elenor, slipped inside. This was Ivana Manning, Elenor' s younger sister. My sister-in-law in spirit, my tormentor in reality.

She clutched a lace-trimmed pillow to her chest. It was Elenor' s pillow. Ivana claimed it was the only thing that helped her sleep, the only thing that kept the nightmares of her sister' s death at bay.

The first time she did this, almost three years ago, I had screamed. Corbett had been furious, not at me, but at her.

"Ivana, this is unacceptable," he had said, his voice firm as he stood between her and our bed. "This is my wife' s room. Our room."

He had marched her out and, the next day, cut off her credit cards.

That night, Ivana had a panic attack so severe that Corbett had to call an ambulance. The doctors said her PTSD was dangerously triggered by the stress.

The next night, the scratching at the door returned.

This time, Corbett didn' t send her away. He sighed, a sound heavy with guilt, and got out of bed.

"Just for tonight, Jen," he' d pleaded with me. "Her anxiety is through the roof."

He had laid a spare duvet and a fresh pillow on the chaise lounge in the corner of our room.

Tonight, like every night for the past 985, he did the same. He rose from our bed, the mattress shifting under his weight, and walked to the closet to retrieve the bedding he now kept ready for her. He didn' t even look at me anymore. He knew I was awake. He just chose to ignore it.

Ivana watched him with wide, tear-filled eyes, a perfect portrait of a fragile, broken girl. She was twenty-three, but she played the part of a terrified child.

I used to feel something. Anger. Humiliation. Desperation. Now, I just felt a deep, hollow coldness. The love I had for Corbett, once a blazing fire, was now a bed of dying embers.

He gently led her to the chaise lounge, tucking the duvet around her.

"It' s okay, Vana," he murmured, his voice soft, the voice he rarely used with me anymore. "You' re safe here."

She clutched his hand. "Corbett, I had the dream again. The crash. Elenor... she was calling for me."

I heard the lie. I had heard it a thousand times. But Corbett, he heard the echo of his own guilt.

Elenor had died in a car crash five years ago, pushing him out of the way of an oncoming truck just before impact. She had saved his life and, in doing so, had shackled him to her memory forever. His guilt was the chain, and Ivana held the key.

He knelt by her side, stroking her hair. "I' m here. I promised Elenor I would always take care of you. I won' t let anything happen to you."

His words were a familiar blade twisting in my gut. He was my husband. He had made vows to me. But his promise to a dead woman always came first.

I finally opened my eyes and sat up, the silk of my nightgown feeling foreign against my skin. "Corbett."

He flinched, turning to look at me. In the dim light from the hallway, I could see the conflict in his eyes. He loved me, or at least, he said he did. But he was weak, and Ivana had preyed on that weakness until it became the defining feature of our marriage.

"Jenna, please," he begged. "Not tonight. She' s not well."

I didn' t look at Ivana. I couldn' t. I looked at the man I married, the man who had once looked at me as if I were the sun. Now, I was just a complication in his penance.

I remembered our wedding day. He' d held my hands and told me, "You' re my second chance, Jenna. You' ve brought the light back into my life."

I had believed him. I had thought my love could heal him. I was a fool. He didn' t want healing. He wanted a substitute for Elenor, and I, with my similar blonde hair and quiet demeanor, had fit the part. When it became clear I was my own person, not a ghost, Ivana began her siege.

She had started small. "Accidentally" spilling red wine on my wedding dress, which she' d asked to see. "Forgetting" my severe allergy to shellfish and serving it at a family dinner. Framing me for the theft of a family heirloom. Each time, Corbett would get angry, then Ivana would have a breakdown, and he would forgive her, begging me to do the same for the sake of her "fragile mental state."

I got out of bed and walked to the bathroom, my feet cold on the marble floor. I shut the door, the click of the lock a small, pathetic act of defiance.

I leaned against the sink, my reflection a pale, tired stranger. I couldn' t go on like this.

I pulled out my phone. An email sat in my inbox, unread for the third time. It was an offer from Kain Solomon, the owner of a legendary perfume house in Grasse, France. He had been a judge at a competition I' d entered before I married Corbett. He' d said my talent was generational. The offer was for a position as their head perfumer. It was a lifeline.

My escape.

My finger hovered over the "accept" button. I just needed to be brave enough to press it.

Suddenly, a piercing shriek ripped through the silence from the bedroom.

"Aaaah! Get off me!"

My heart stopped. I threw the bathroom door open and ran back in.

Ivana was on the floor, thrashing, her hands clawing at her own throat. She was looking directly at me, her eyes wide with a terrifying, theatrical fear.

"She did it!" Ivana screamed, pointing a shaking finger at me. "She tried to kill me! She snuck in while I was sleeping and choked me!"

I froze, my mind struggling to process the blatant lie. I had been in the bathroom.

Corbett was already by Ivana' s side, his face a mask of panic and fury. He didn' t even look at me for my side of the story. He just looked at me with raw disappointment.

"Jenna! What did you do?" he yelled, his voice cracking.

"Nothing!" I said, my voice shaking. "Corbett, I was in the bathroom. You know I was."

Ivana started sobbing, great, theatrical gasps for air. "She hates me because I look like Elenor! She wants to erase every part of her from your life!"

Corbett scooped her up, holding her like a broken doll. He glared at me over her shoulder, his eyes cold.

"Apologize to her," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

"What?" I whispered, disbelief washing over me.

"I said, apologize. Now." He cradled Ivana, soothing her, while his gaze condemned me.

In that moment, watching him protect my tormentor, the last ember of my love for him finally went out. It wasn't a flicker. It was an instant, silent death, leaving nothing but cold, hard ash.