The Wife He Buried Alive

3 - The

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dators pretending to be polite. Every face here is controlled. Every movement is measured. I stand at the center beneath the lights, cameras angled upward, microphones catching every word. "I am here today," I begin, voice steady, "to present the continued

ht, "And now, we welcome our newest global investor..." I stop listening halfway through the sentence. The doors open at the back. My breath slows. Because I see her, and for a moment, everything in me stops working the way it should. She

break in control. The room does not notice, but I do. She approaches the stage. Closer now. Too close. And when her eyes meet mine, something inside me shifts. Recognition floods my chest, sharp and

he report. I confirmed the records. I saw what remained. She extends her hand. "Mr. Reid." Her voice is smooth. Too smooth. I take her hand, a second longer than necessary, maybe two. Her fingers tighten slightly. Not a mistake. A response. I release her slowly, carefully. "Ms. Lau

Then I approach. "You look like someone I knew," I say. Direct. No hesitation. She turns slowly, measured, unbothered. "People say that often," she replies. Her tone is polite. Too polite. "What is your real name?" I ask. "Sienna Laurent." "Where are you from?"

e remains steady, but her eyes, for a fraction of a second, something flickers. Gone immediately. But I caught it. "Her name was Sophia." Another pause. "I've seen the reports." Headlines. That is what she

erself, not being it. I signal Evan. "Get me what she drinks from." He nods once. No questions. Hours later, I received the confirmation. I do not open the message immediately, because I

dangerous. Hope. And anger. Because now the question changes. Not if she survived, but how. And why is she lying? Because she is lying. I know it now. Standing in front of me. Looking at

mething deep inside me tightens further. Because if she came back from the dead, then this was never about death. It was about so