What If the Blind Wife Hated Having Eyes Again?

Sloane's POV

I thought Auden was the most devoted husband in the world—until the day I regained my sight and recognized him on the front page: a serial killer who had murdered eight blonde women.

I had to play blind. I swallowed the liquid the maid brought me—a brew soaked in dead people's eyeballs. I chewed on a human molar in my dinner. I sat perfectly still as I watched him fuck our maid right in front of me, not daring to let a single expression slip.

Because the exact second my vision returned, an anonymous text had popped up on my phone: Don't let Auden know you can see.

——

I rubbed my throbbing forehead, staring around the room in disbelief. The endless darkness that had plagued me was completely gone.

I could see.

"Auden!" I called out to my husband, my voice shaking uncontrollably as I stumbled out of our bedroom.

I wanted him to be the first to know about this miracle. For the past six months, my seemingly perfect husband had been driven to the brink of a breakdown over my blindness.

The living room was empty. Only the rich scent of black coffee lingered in the air.

I was about to feel my way toward the kitchen when my eyes locked onto a copy of The Boston Globe on the coffee table.

The paper was tossed open. The bold, black headline looked as if it were written in blood: SERIAL KILLER STRIKES AGAIN: EIGHTH BLONDE VICTIM BRUTALLY MURDERED.

Below it was a crystal-clear, candid profile photo.

It was my husband. Auden Hale.

The high bridge of his nose, the deep-set brow bone, even the tiny red mole on his jawline—it was unmistakably him.

"This is impossible..." The blood in my veins turned to ice. I collapsed into the expensive Italian leather sofa. "It has to be a smear campaign by some trashy tabloid. Auden coddles me if I so much as get a paper cut. How could he be a psycho?"

A surge of absurd anger gave me the strength to stand up. I was going to rip this garbage to shreds and demand to know which media scumbag he had crossed.

I grabbed the newspaper and marched toward his study.

The moment I pushed the door open, the paper slipped through my fingers and slapped against the hardwood floor.

All the color drained from my face. My legs felt like lead, rooting me to the spot.

Spread across his massive oak desk were dozens of clippings covering the serial killings from different dates—and every single suspect sketch or blurry photo matched Auden.

"No... no, this can't be real, Auden..."

Shivering violently, I stumbled backward, my shoulders slamming hard into a solid wood filing cabinet.

Bang. The doors rattled open.

A pungent, nauseating stench of formaldehyde rushed out, grabbing me by the throat like a poisoned hand.

There were no files inside. Instead, dozens of medical glass jars sat perfectly arranged on the shelves.

My eyes were magnetically drawn to the jar closest to me. Floating in a pale yellow liquid were two piercing blue human eyeballs. The severed optic nerves trailed behind them, coarse and ragged. Through the glass, they stared dead at me.

"Jesus Christ—"

Unable to hold it back, I screamed and recoiled, my elbow violently knocking into a slightly open drawer beside me.

Something heavy tumbled out and hit the Persian rug with a dull thud.

It was a pale, severed woman’s arm.

The flesh at the stump was black and rotting, yet the five fingers sported a flawless, bright red French manicure. Under the desk lamp, the nails gleamed with a sickeningly eerie shine.

Right then, the phone in my pocket buzzed frantically like it was electrified.

With trembling hands, I pulled it out. An anonymous text glowed on the screen.

[DON'T TELL AUDEN YOU CAN SEE!]

My breath hitched.

Who sent this?

Terror flooded every cell in my body like ice water. Lark—I need to call my sister Lark!

In a blind panic, I dialed her number from memory.

Pick up, Lark, please pick up—

"We're sorry, the number you have reached is not in service..." A cold, robotic female voice echoed in my ear.

Suddenly, the steady, familiar click of leather shoes echoed down the hallway.

A split second later, the study door swung wide open.

The thick stench of blood mixed with expensive cedarwood cologne assaulted my senses.

"Sloane? Darling, what are you doing in the study?"

Auden’s voice was as deep and gentle as ever, dripping with that intoxicating, tender affection I knew so well.

I forced my eyes into an empty stare, slowly turning my head toward his voice, painting on that perfect, dependent smile I’d worn a thousand times before.

"Auden? Are you back?" I forced my voice to sound pleasantly surprised. "I was bored out of my mind. I was trying to find my Braille copy of Jane Eyre..."

He stood in the doorway.

The tailored suit I had personally picked out for him was completely saturated with dark, sticky blood.

Hearing my greeting, he smiled elegantly.

And in his right hand, dangling casually by its long blonde hair, was a mangled, severed woman’s head. Her eyes bulged in terminal terror while blood dripped from the ragged neck, splattering against the floor, drop by drop.