Once a Wife [English Version]

Chapter 30

Dominic jolted awake, his chest heaving, his skin slick with cold sweat. He pressed his palms to his face, trying to chase away the lingering shadows of his dream.

But it wasn't just a dream. It was memory—fractured, blurred, shifting between what was real and what wasn't.

The room around him seemed clear enough, yet a heavy dread pressed against his chest.

He was seated across a woman in a dimly lit place — maybe a restaurant, maybe a private lounge. It was hard to remember. Everything blurred together. Everything, except for her face.

She looked like Cynthia.

Almost exactly like her. The same sharp cheekbones. The same cold eyes.

But it wasn't Cynthia.

This woman carried authority in her voice, precision in her movements, and wore her expensive suit like armor.

She wasn't the type to beg or ask favors — she was the type who made things happen, even if it meant breaking people along the way.

"You think you love her?" she asked him, seated behind a marble desk too large for the office. "Love won't protect your family, Dominic. But I can."

It was the way she said it. Not as a threat. As a promise.

She leaned forward, perfume thick and nauseatingly sweet. "Think carefully, Dominic. You wouldn't want your family caught in this mess."

Her words sliced through the fog.

He had left that room trembling, yet with no memory of what happened next.

He couldn't recall her name. But he remembered seeing her on billboards, in campaign posters. If his memory served him right, she was the wife of a politician.

Was she connected to Cynthia?

Dominic didn't know if it was a dream, or if he was dragging something up from deep inside his memory.

Threats disguised as concern. Power masked as civility. He didn't recall ever asking for favors. But he remembered receiving them.

Then — a loud thud rang in his head. Everything went black.

There was a blank in his memory between that day in her office and the day he ended things with Maricar.

That night, Dominic had cried without knowing why.

And he never asked questions afterward. Never dared.

Until now.

He stood abruptly, moving toward the small mirror in the room.

His own reflection stared back at him — weary, confused.

What else don't I remember?

He woke with a start, breath catching in his throat.

Disoriented, cold sweat clung to his skin.

His gaze darted to the bed — empty.

Maricar was gone.

Slowly, he dragged himself up and sank onto the sofa, burying his face in his hands.

Was it just a dream? Or was it a memory, clawing its way back?

It was happening more often. He could no longer tell which memories were real and which were erased.

Then another memory surfaced — this one from just last night.

Maricar. Drunk.

And then — that kiss.

It hadn't been casual. It wasn't just the wine.