Wish - Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Ashley, like her mother, was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made men want to marry her. He’d been drawn to her, captivated even, but he’d always looked down on her background, her past.

That’s why he’d never gone public with their relationship. He didn’t want his friends joking about how he and his father had fallen for the same woman, mother and daughter. It wasn’t something he was proud of.

He’d enjoyed being with her, the moments of intense connection, but he’d always known he wouldn’t marry her. He’d thought he was in control. After all, his family had done so much for her. She’d always been obedient, compliant.

Three years.

He’d almost forgotten the spirited, independent girl she’d been before him. Now, she was done. Just like that. She didn’t want him. Just friends. Just like he’d wanted.

Just friends.

Forever.

Ethan pulled the velvet box from his pocket. The 11.8–carat diamond, meant for her birthday tomorrow, mocked him with its brilliance. He handed the phone and the box to the waiter. “Thanks for the phone. I don’t need this anymore. You can have it.”

He spoke calmly, his voice even. The stunned waiter tried to refuse, but Ethan was already gone. I’d made plans with David to celebrate my birthday after the dinner at the Millers‘.

He walked me to the car, looking handsome in the black cashmere coat I’d bought him. I could see the disappointment in his eyes, so I kissed him quickly. “Wait for me. Hot pot tonight?”

He nodded, pulling me into a longer kiss. We didn’t break apart until the Millers‘ car arrived. I watched him from the back window as we drove away. He stood there in the falling snow, a solitary figure, until he disappeared from sight.

Ethan wasn’t at the party. He’d said he wanted to end things on my birthday, but that wasn’t necessary anymore. After our phone call, there was no way he’d come crawling back. It was for the best. We were back to being friends.

Something felt off when I arrived at the Miller house. It was eerily quiet, almost devoid of staff. A prickle of unease ran down my spine. I thought of Mrs. Miller’s chilling expression that night.

I stopped, pulling out my phone. I called David, letting it ring three times before hanging up. It was a code we’d established while watching a show, a signal for danger or uncertainty. He would understand. He would come.

The maid escorted me inside, then disappeared. Mrs. Miller was sitting on the sofa, wearing a pale grey cheongsam. She smiled, beckoning me over for tea. She looked her usual kind self. Had I been imagining things?

“Come, Ashley, have some tea with me.”

The fragrant steam rose from the jade–colored liquid. I took a sip. Mrs. Miller stood. “I almost forgot your present. I’ll be right back.”

I stood up with her, and the room spun. She caught me. “Ashley, what’s wrong? You look pale. Let’s go upstairs. You can rest in your old room. I’ve kept it clean for you.”

I couldn’t open my eyes, my body weak and heavy. I felt myself being guided, but it wasn’t Mrs. Miller anymore. I struggled to see, but my vision was blurred. Then, a familiar voice.

“Ashley, you’re even more beautiful than your mother was…”

“Mr. Miller?” I gasped, a jolt of terror shooting through me. But the brief clarity faded as the drug took over. The room spun again, and I was pushed onto a bed. The door clicked shut.

Mrs. Miller stood downstairs, staring at the closed bedroom door. Years ago, Ashley’s mother, Helen, had screamed and begged from behind that same door, pleading for help. Mrs. Miller hadn’t gone up then either.

Helen had been a single mother, beautiful and vulnerable, working for the Millers when Richard, Mrs. Miller’s husband, had taken an interest in her. It hadn’t been seduction, it had been coercion.

Helen had fought back, threatened to report him. But she had a daughter, Ashley, whom she adored. Richard had used her as leverage, and Helen had backed down.

Mrs. Miller had watched her husband’s infatuation grow, consumed by hatred and resentment. But she’d endured it, swallowing her tears and rage. The driver had been a distant relative. She’d orchestrated Helen’s death.

Richard had eventually figured it out, his rage turning violent. But because of Ethan, and the pressure from Richard’s father, the marriage remained intact, a hollow shell of its former self.

Helen was dead. To protect the family name, and her standing with her son, the story had been twisted. The victim became the villain, the murderer handsomely rewarded for his silence. Richard left DC, continuing his life of privilege.

Mrs. Miller adopted Ashley, treating her like a daughter. People praised her kindness, her compassion. Ethan respected her even more. But only she knew the truth. She was broken.

She was crazy.

Perhaps she’d kept Ashley alive for this very moment. Helen’s daughter’s screams would be even more satisfying. She didn’t understand. How could a mother seduce her husband, and then her daughter seduce her son?

She’d tolerated Ethan’s fling with Ashley. It had been a secret, a nothing. But now, he was talking about marriage. And Richard…he hadn’t given up on Ashley either. She couldn’t let that happen. Ashley had brought this on herself.

Screeching tires shattered the silence. Mrs. Miller whirled around. David and Ethan burst through the door, racing upstairs almost simultaneously. The bedroom door crashed open.

Richard scrambled off the bed, his clothes disheveled, his face and body covered in scratches. Ethan stopped dead in the doorway. “David, take her to the hospital.” He turned away, unable to look inside.