The Wife He Tried To Erase Chapter 12
Winter arrived unusually early in New York.
Ever since Valentina had been taken away that night, the Gallagher’s residence had fallen into a deathly silence.
Most of the servants had been dismissed, leaving only a few elderly ones who dared not speak much.
The vast villa was empty, with only the basement’s eternal lamp burning through the night.
Nicholas had moved into the basement where Emilia had once been imprisoned.
He wore an expensive handmade shirt, but its cuffs were stained with mottled paint.
He sat before the easel where Emilia had once sat, holding the brush she had worn down, trying to paint something on the canvas she had covered in deep red.
But he could not paint anything.
No matter how hard he tried, only twisted lines flowed from his brush.
“Emmy?”
He suddenly stopped painting and turned sharply to look at the shadowy corner.
There was no one there, only the pale wall.
But he was certain he had heard it.
He had heard her suppressed cough, heard her softly pleading, “It hurts.”
“Don’t be afraid, I won’t let anyone shock you anymore.” Nicholas threw down the brush and stumbled toward the corner. “Tina has already been sent away, Dr. Chapman is in prison, no one dares to bully you now. Come out, let me hold you, please?”
The air was filled only with the smell of mold and paint.
There was no woman with the faint scent of medicine.
It was another hallucination.
Over the past six months, he had seen her curled up in the corner of the bed countless times, seen her standing at the door covered in blood, but whenever he tried to touch her, she would dissipate like smoke.
“Mr. Gallagher.”
The basement door was pushed open. Elroy, the special assistant, stood at the entrance, looking at the once invincible man with a complicated expression.
Nicholas did not turn around. He sat back at the easel and picked up the brush. “Get out. I told you, don’t disturb me and Emmy while we paint.”
“Mr. Gallagher, there is news about Mrs. Gallagher.”
“Crack.”
The brush snapped in Nicholas’s palm, sharp splinters piercing his flesh. Blood flowed freely, but he was oblivious.
He turned abruptly, his eyes bloodshot, staring fiercely at Elroy. “Where?”
Elroy handed over an album and opened it to a dog-eared page.
It was an art auction soon to be held in Zurich.
In the center of the album was an oil painting titled “Rebirth.”
This style was completely different from Emilia’s once gentle and delicate approach.
But Nicholas only needed a glance; his heart felt as if it had been struck by a heavy hammer, so painful he could hardly breathe.
He recognized that brushwork.
“Prepare the plane.”
Nicholas slammed the album shut, his voice hoarse.
“Go to Zurich.”
He lowered his head, looking at the blood in his palm, and his lips twisted into a smile uglier than crying.
“She isn’t dead… she still hates me.”
“As long as she hates me, it means she still remembers me.”