Chapter 11 A Stranger #2
The bed was still neatly made, the sheets smooth, cold, and undisturbed — as if Sophia had never slept there at all.
Something in his chest tightened painfully.
The next second, his eyes landed on a large pair of scissors resting on the side table.
He grabbed them.
Without hesitation, he plunged the blade into the mattress and dragged it across the surface.
The sound of fabric tearing echoed through the room.
Again. And again.
Feathers and cotton burst out from the mattress, flying into the air like white snow. He ripped through it mercilessly, stabbing and tearing as if trying to destroy the memory itself.
His hand slipped at one point. The sharp edge cut into his palm as he gripped the blade too tightly.
Blood began to drip onto the shredded bed.
But he didn’t stop.
By the time the bed was completely destroyed, the room was a disaster.
His breathing turned heavier. His chest rose and fell violently.
Timothy appeared at the doorway, horror and worry in his eyes.
“Mr. Graves, your hand—”
Magnus didn’t respond.
He turned sharply and stormed into the bathroom.
Some of Sophia’s things were still there.
Her creams. Her toothbrush. Small personal items neatly arranged on the counter.
His jaw clenched.
With one furious sweep of his arm, he knocked everything off the counter. Bottles crashed onto the floor, rolling away.
He grabbed what remained and threw it into the trash bin beside the cabinet.
“Sir, you’re bleeding,” Timothy tried again, stepping forward cautiously.
Magnus didn’t even look at him.
Instead, his eyes fell on a metal decorative piece sitting near the sink.
He picked it up.
And hurled it at the mirror.
The glass shattered instantly.
The explosion of sound echoed through the bathroom. Shards rained down onto the sink and the floor, scattering everywhere.
Now the bathroom was a complete mess—glass everywhere, toiletries crushed, blood staining the sink.
Magnus stood there for a second, breathing hard, staring at his own fractured reflection in the broken mirror pieces.
Then he turned and walked back into the bedroom.
“What else is left?” he growled under his breath, eyes wild.
Timothy stepped cautiously inside.
Magnus’s gaze snapped to him.
“What else did she touch while living in my house?” he demanded, his voice hoarse and furious.
Timothy remained silent.
“She’s already living with another man,” Magnus spat. “There’s no need to keep anything she ever touched in this house.”
His fists clenched, blood smearing across his knuckles.
“Throw everything out. I don’t want a single thing in this house that reminds me of her.”
His eyes burned with fury.
“There’s no reason to keep a stranger’s things in my fucking house.”
Timothy instinctively stepped back as Magnus suddenly stormed toward Sophia’s closet.
He yanked the doors open violently. They hit the wall with a loud bang.
Magnus stared inside.
It was empty.
Nothing of hers left.
That only made him angrier.
For a second, he just stood there, breathing heavily.
Then rage exploded again.
He slammed the closet doors shut so hard the sound echoed across the entire first floor.
“Mr. Graves… you might regret this when you’re not drunk,” Timothy said cautiously, his voice filled with concern.
Magnus twisted his head sharply toward him.
The glare in his eyes was so furious, so unhinged, that Timothy physically flinched and took another step back. His throat tightened. He didn’t dare say anything else.
Magnus marched straight toward him.
Timothy quickly moved aside, pressing himself against the wall as Magnus brushed past him without a word.
He stormed out of the bedroom and thundered down the stairs.
Back in the kitchen, he grabbed the whiskey bottle from the counter and lifted it straight to his lips.
He chugged it down aggressively.
After a few large gulps, the burn hit his throat brutally. He coughed loudly, doubling over slightly, one hand gripping the counter for support.
His head spun.
But he didn’t drop the bottle.
Instead, he staggered toward the living room.
He sank heavily to the floor, his back hitting the couch behind him for support. His body slumped against it, but his hand never loosened around the bottle.
He continued drinking.
The alcohol slid down his throat, making his chest burn, his vision blur, his body grew heavier by the second.
Timothy hurried toward him, alarm written all over his face.
Just then—
Timothy’s phone rang.
He glanced at the screen and answered quickly, stepping slightly aside but keeping his eyes on Magnus.
He listened in silence for a few moments.
Then his expression changed.
After hanging up, he looked at Magnus carefully.
“Mr. Graves… Mrs. Graves is leaving Manhattan tonight. She has a flight to London. It’s at four in the morning.”
Magnus’s head snapped up.
His eyes were bloodshot.
“Why the hell are you telling me that?” he barked. “She’s not my wife anymore. She divorced me. So why the fuck are you still informing me about her?”
Timothy swallowed.
“Sir… she’s really leaving the country tomorrow,” he said softly. “I thought maybe you would want to stop her?”
“Are you deaf?!” Magnus roared, cutting him off.
He struggled to stand but failed, slamming the bottle down beside him instead.
“How hard is it to understand?” he continued furiously. “You’re not allowed to tell me anything about her from now on. I don’t need updates about her whereabouts or what she’s doing with her fucking life. Do you understand?”
Timothy lowered his head slightly.
“Yes, Mr. Graves.”
But he hesitated for just a second.
“Sir… maybe you want to see her before she leaves? Talk to her?”
Magnus’s eyes darkened dangerously.
“What did I just fucking say?” he growled.
His voice was lower now. Deadlier.
“Do you understand or not?”
Timothy lowered his head immediately.
“Yes, Mr. Graves,” he replied obediently.
Silence filled the room except for Magnus’s heavy breathing.
“Now get out,” Magnus ordered hoarsely. “Leave me alone.”
“Yes, sir. Good night.”
Timothy gave him one last worried look before turning and walking out of the house. The door shut quietly behind him.
The house fell into complete silence.
Magnus remained on the floor, leaning against the couch, the whiskey bottle still in his hand.
He lifted the bottle again and kept drinking until it was empty.
The alcohol burned through his system, heavy and suffocating. His head spun violently, his chest tight as if he couldn’t breathe properly.
Eventually, the bottle slipped from his fingers and rolled across the floor.
The alcohol flooding his system was finally too much. His head spun violently. His breathing became uneven, shallow. His body slid slightly to the side, slumping against the couch.
And finally—
He lost consciousness.
He didn’t even realize when his eyes finally shut.
The alcohol dragged him under slowly.
His grip loosened.
His head tilted to the side.
He didn’t even realize when his eyes closed.
One moment he was drinking.
Next, everything went dark.
The night passed in silence.
Magnus lay half on the floor, half against the couch. His head rested awkwardly on the edge of the cushion while the rest of his body sprawled across the cold marble tiles. An empty whiskey bottle lay beside his hand.
Only one light in the living room remained on, casting a dull yellow glow over the mess. The rest of the house was silent. Dark. Lifeless.
Five in the morning.
His eyes flickered open.
For a moment, he didn’t move. His vision was blurry. The room felt unfamiliar, almost distant.
Outside the windows, the sky had begun to lighten. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but a pale gray glow stretched across the horizon.
Pain throbbed at his temples. His throat burned, dry and raw.
A slow blink. Then he shifted slightly—only to wince as stiffness shot through his neck and back from sleeping in that twisted position.
Silence surrounded him. No footsteps. No voices.
Sluggishly, he reached down and grabbed his phone from the floor. His fingers trembled faintly as he lifted it.
The screen glowed harshly in the dim room.
5:00 AM.
He licked his cracked lips, then tossed the phone aside again, exhaling roughly.
Pushing himself upright took effort. His muscles protested immediately. Every inch of him ached. His head felt like it might split open.
His gaze dropped to the whiskey bottle near his hand. A thin layer of amber liquid still clung to the bottom.
And then—
Timothy’s voice echoed inside his head.
‘Mrs. Graves is leaving Manhattan tonight. She has a flight to London. It’s at four in the morning. She’s really leaving the country tomorrow. I thought maybe you would want to stop her?’
The memory hit him like a bolt of electricity.
His breathing stopped.
Panic exploded in his chest.
Magnus’s eyes snapped open fully.
All the drowsiness disappeared in a second.
He shot upright, his heart slamming violently against his ribs. He grabbed his phone again, his hands suddenly shaking.
He checked the screen.
5:02 AM.