Chapter 831 Henry Rosewood

831 Henry Rosewood

Mia jolted awake, gasping for breath. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the terror of the nightmare that had just ripped her from sleep.

Sweat clung to her skin, the sheets twisted tangled around her legs. Disoriented for a moment, she scanned the room, the familiar cozy glow of their bedside lamp a beacon in the darkness and the familiar outline of Jeff's sleeping form beside her a comforting presence.

A tremor ran through her body as the remnants of the nightmare clung to her. It had been vivid, a suffocating dream where Henry loomed over her bed, his face twisted in a cruel smile. It felt so real, like his cold breath was tickling her cheek, his mocking voice echoing in her ears.

"Mia?" Jeff stirred beside her, his voice gravelly with sleep, was a soothing balm to her racing pulse.

"Are you alright?" He asked as he sat up, his brow furrowed with worry. In the warm light, his face was etched with concern, his brown eyes gentle and caring.

Mia took a shuddering breath, willing the phantom sensation of his icy grip on her wrist to fade.

"Y-yeah," she stammered, her voice trembling. Relief washed over her as his warm hand coverer hers, a solid anchor in the storm of her fear.

"Did you have a nightmare?" he asked as he watched her face.

Tears welled up in Mia's eyes. How could she describe the terror that had gripped her, the feeling of being watched, trapped? "Yes," she confessed, her voice barely a whisper.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, his voice soft.

Mia hesitated. Talking about Henry always felt like opening a fresh wound, a constant reminder of the darkness she'd escaped. But something about the lingering raw terror and the unsettling details of the dream, made her yearn for solace.

Mia nodded, wrapping her arms around herself, "It was... him again," she whispered, her voice thick with dread.

Jeff knew exactly who "him" referred to. He'd heard bits and pieces of Mia's past, and knew too well the physical and emotional scars Henry had left etched on her body and soul.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she spoke. "I...I dreamt he was standing here, right beside the bed. Just watching me sleep. It felt so real, like he could reach out and touch me."

Jeff's jaw clenched. He hated the thought of that man ever having had any power over Mia. He squeezed her hand, his voice reassuring. "It was just a dream. A bad one, but it wasn't real. And you don't have to worry. Whatever nightmares you have, I will be here when you wake up."

Part of Mia knew he was right. Henry was miles away, likely living his luxurious life with no thought of her. But the unsettling conversation with Alicia had planted a seed of doubt. What if there was a connection?

"But what if it wasn't?" Mia whispered, the fear creeping back into her voice. "What if Alicia was right? What if someone..."

"Hey, hey. Calm down," Jeff cut her off, his voice firm yet gentle. "We will figure this out, alright? I won't let him get to you, I promise," Jeff said confidently.

"Okay," she agreed, her voice calmer now. "But I need the plate number Alicia sent. I need to send it to..."

"Harry? I sent it to Harry already," Jeff said and Mia frowned.

"Why would you do that?" She asked as she drew back from him.

"I know he is involved in this. I told him I wanted to help too...."

"That doesn't mean you should go behind me and handle MY business. I could have reached out to him and talked to him about this myself. I am the one who asked for his help. I didn't ask you to step in and play middle man," Mia snapped irritably and Jeff watched her silently.

"I'm not trying to take control of your life, Mia. I'm here to help," he said calmly, knowing the root of her anger.

"Well, it seems to me like you are taking control. First you come in here every damn night acting like some damn man of the house, and then you're making me cook and now you go behind me and handle my business," Mia hissed, and Jeff sighed deeply.

"I'm not making you do anything, Mia. I'm not your father and neither am I your husband..."

"You are a man just like them and you all act the same. You go about acting like a woman needs you to tell them what to do and fix their life," Mia continued and Jeff shook his head as he got off the bed.

"Alright. Stop it. Stop right there. Talking to you in this state won't work. I understand that you're not in the best frame of mind right now and you're only lashing out because you are scared. I'm trying to be patient with you right now. I'm trying my best to be an understanding friend, but I won't stay up by this time of the night to have a fight with you. Nah. I won't do that. If you won't stay calm and have a reasonable conversation without throwing such insulting accusations at me, you'd have to fight yourself, not me. When you are calm, I will be in the living room," Jeff said and without waiting for her to respond, he picked up a pillow and headed for the door.

Mia wanted to stop him from leaving but she held back as she watched him walk away. He was right. He didn't deserve any of those unkind things she had said. He was different from her father and Henry, and comparing him to them was very insulting.

Now, the initial report sat nestled amidst a pile of unopened emails on his desk. Apprehension gnawed at him. What if it wasn't Vanessa? What if it was just a cruel twist of fate, a figment of someone's imagination?

With a shaky hand, Henry clicked on the email. A flurry of photos populated the screen. The first one he clicked on stopped his breath.

There she was, seated in a fancy restaurant, a shock of a auburn hair framing a face that mirrored Vanessa's in its youthful vibrance.

Although Vanessa's hair had been black, there was no denying that this was his wife. He didn't need anyone to tell him. He knew her as much as he knew the back of his hand.

A closer look at the face revealed subtle differences – a softer set to the hazel eyes, a smile that wasn't guarded by the faintest hint of fear.

This woman, this Mia as the caption identified her, exuded a quiet confidence Vanessa had never possessed.

Had she played him for a fool all along? Had the meek, timid woman he had married been an elaborate act?

The photos certainly hinted at a different Vanessa, a woman with a spark in her eyes, a woman who wasn't perpetually flinching under his gaze.

The image of her submissive form, the way she would shrink under his booming voice, sent a fresh wave of fury crashing over him.

He gritted his teeth as he scrolled through the pictures, each image chipped away at the carefully constructed image of grief he had presented to the world.

Vanessa, or should he say Mia, the woman who had dared to play him for a fool, was alive and seemingly thriving.

Anger burned a hot ember in his gut. His wife had chosen to disappear, to rebuild her life under a new identity. A life far from the gilded cage he had built for her.

Henry gripped the armrest of his mahogany chair, knuckles turning white when he came upon a photo of Mia standing by the roadside laughing with with some lanky nobody named Jeff, presumably her housemate and colleague.

The next photo was of them both standing in front of a door and Jeff her supposed housemate tucking her hair behind her ear. The very thought of her living with another man and of him touching her, made Henry clench his jaw.

He walked away from the computer to stand by the window since the photos continued to mock him, each one a fresh barb to his already fuming ego.

The view outside his window blurred as a cold fury ignited within him. "Three years," he growled, the words a low rumble in his chest.

Three years of mourning, of carefully cultivated grief, of playing the part of the bereaved husband to a tee. All a sham, it seemed.

The woman who had sworn to stand by him, to be his trophy wife, had vanished, leaving him to shoulder the charade alone.

For all he knew, Jeff could be her lover and she had fled with him to start up a new life else where. The whore!

The thought of her laughter in those photos, the carefree way she leaned against the nobody, sent a tremor of rage through him.

"Mia," he spat the name, the unfamiliar moniker a further insult. The name itself was a cheap disguise for the woman who dared to be Vanessa Rosewood.

Reinventing herself? He scoffed as he walked back to stand by his desk.

Vanessa had always possessed a flair for the dramatic, a thirst for attention. This elaborate escape was just another one of her games.

But Henry Rosewood wasn't a man to be played. He had built his financial empire from the ground up, regardless of his family's fortune. He was a ruthless titan in a world that respected power and Vanessa had made a fool of him.

He slammed his fist on the polished mahogany desk, the sound echoing through the opulent office and sending a tremor through the crystal decanter perched precariously on the edge. The amber liquid sloshed but held. Unlike his carefully constructed composure.

This wasn't about guilt or shame. This was about control. He had built her. He had molded her, shaped her into the perfect wife, the perfect public image for Henry Rosewood. And she had thrown it all away for a life with some scruffy nobody in a far-flung country?

This escape, this pathetic attempt at a new life, was a betrayal he wouldn't tolerate. He wouldn't have it. Vanessa wouldn't get away with this. She would return to her gilded cage, a reminder of who she belonged to.

Vanessa Rosewood belonged by his side. Not as some cowering ghost, but as a reminder of who held the power, who called the shots. He had built an empire, and she, his wife, would play her part within it.

Henry Rosewood wouldn't be mocked. He would have his revenge.