CHAPTER TEN

Chapter Ten

Wanda woke with a start, her body drenched in a cold sweat. She sat up quickly, a wave of nausea crashing over her as the room spun around her. Her head pounded, each throb echoing like a drumbeat in her ears. She swallowed hard, trying to keep the bile from rising, but the churning in her stomach wouldn’t be ignored.

She stumbled out of bed, her hands trembling as she fumbled for balance. “What is happening to me?” she mumbled to herself, her voice weak and strained. She clutched her stomach, the sick feeling intensifying with each step. Desperation clawed at her as she searched for someone—anyone—who could help, but the suite was empty, Michael long gone.

Wanda's breath hitched as another wave of dizziness hit her. She leaned against the cool marble wall, her vision blurring at the edges. She had never felt like this before, her body betraying her with every movement. Panic set in as she realized there was no one nearby; she was alone, and she had to find help before her legs gave out beneath her.

Gathering the last of her strength, Wanda made her way to the door, her hand slipping on the handle as she pulled it open. The bright lights of the hallway hit her like a punch, and she squinted, shielding her eyes from the glare. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to focus on her goal: find someone, get help, make this horrible feeling go away.

Wanda’s steps were slow and unsteady as she moved through the luxurious corridors of the cottage. Her hand skimmed the wall, using it as a guide to keep her upright. She could feel the fever setting in, her skin flushed and clammy. She needed to find the first aid room, or at least someone who could direct her there, but her mind was foggy, the path ahead seeming to stretch endlessly.

Meanwhile, across the resort, Michael was lost in a different kind of haze. He sat beside Martha at the bar, her presence enveloping him like a warm, familiar blanket. The drinks had flowed easily, loosening his guard and blurring the lines between past and present. Martha’s laughter was soft, seductive, each sound coaxing him further into the web she was weaving.

“Remember our nights in Paris?” Martha purred, her fingers lightly tracing circles on Michael’s arm. “The rooftop dinners, the way we used to dance under the stars…” She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his neck. “Those were the best times, Michael. We had something real.”

Michael’s head was foggy, his grip on the present slipping as Martha’s words painted vivid pictures in his mind. He remembered the feel of her skin, the taste of her lips, the reckless abandon of their time together. His resolve weakened, his thoughts tangled in the nostalgia of what once was.

“Martha, I…” he started, but his words faltered as she pressed a soft kiss to his jaw, her touch sending a shiver down his spine. He was teetering on the edge, caught between the pull of the past and the fragile commitments of his present.

Martha’s hand slid down his chest, her touch light but insistent. “Let’s go somewhere quieter,” she whispered, her voice a siren’s call. Michael hesitated for a moment, a flicker of doubt crossing his features, but the alcohol and Martha’s relentless seduction blurred his judgment.

Without another word, he stood, allowing Martha to lead him away from the bar. She walked confidently, her grip firm as she guided him towards the secluded pathway that led back to his cottage. Michael followed, his steps unsteady but his gaze fixed on her. He didn’t notice Wanda’s silhouette in the distance, her figure partially obscured by the dim lighting of the resort.

Wanda, still reeling from her own nausea, caught sight of Michael just as he turned the corner with Martha. Her heart sank, a mix of confusion and hurt welling up inside her. She recognized Martha’s figure, the way she clung to Michael’s arm, the closeness that spoke of more than just a casual conversation. Wanda’s breath hitched, the realization hitting her like a blow.

“No… no, this can’t be happening,” she whispered, stumbling forward in an attempt to follow them. But her body betrayed her once again, and she doubled over, retching violently. Her knees buckled, and she sank to the ground, her vision blurring as the nausea overwhelmed her senses.

A nearby resort worker noticed Wanda struggling and hurried over. “Miss, are you alright?” he asked, kneeling beside her with genuine concern. Wanda could barely muster a response, her energy drained and her body trembling. The worker quickly assessed the situation, his expression softening as he helped her to her feet. “Let’s get you to the first aid room. You need to rest.”

Wanda nodded weakly, leaning on the worker for support as he guided her away. Her mind was a whirl of thoughts, none of them making sense. She had seen Michael with another woman, their closeness unmistakable, and now she was too weak to even confront him. She felt trapped, caught in a loop of sickness and suspicion, each thought feeding into the other.

---

Back in Anderson’s mansion, frustration simmered just below the surface. He had spent the morning pacing, his mind consumed with thoughts of Wanda and the endless, torturous ways he could try to get her back. But every idea felt inadequate, every plan flawed. He couldn’t shake the feeling of helplessness, the nagging certainty that he was losing her for good.

Agnes, meanwhile, was determined to make her presence felt. She trailed Anderson around the house, her voice a constant buzz of complaints and demands. “Anderson, you need to stop moping around,” she said, her tone sharp as she followed him into the kitchen. “This isn’t healthy. You’ve got to move on.”

Anderson rubbed his temples, the headache from last night’s drinking still lingering. “Agnes, I don’t need this right now,” he snapped, his patience wearing thin. “I’m trying to think.”

Agnes crossed her arms, her expression set in a stubborn line. “Think about what, Anderson? How to chase after a woman who’s already moved on? You’re wasting your time.”

Anderson turned to face her, his eyes narrowing. “This isn’t your concern,” he said coldly. “Wanda is my wife. I have to find a way to fix this.”

Agnes rolled her eyes, her frustration bubbling over. “Wanda left you, Anderson,” she repeated, her voice laced with exasperation. “She doesn’t want you back. And you know what? Maybe that’s for the best.”

Anderson’s jaw tightened, his temper flaring. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he shot back, his voice rising. “Wanda and I—we’ve been through too much for it to just end like this. I can’t give up.”

Agnes sighed, her shoulders slumping as she watched Anderson’s relentless fixation on a lost cause. She wanted to be the one to fill the void, to be the woman he needed, but it was clear that Anderson’s heart was still entangled in the web of his past with Wanda. She felt her own bitterness rise, the sting of rejection cutting deeper with every word he spoke.

“Fine,” Agnes muttered, throwing her hands up in surrender. “Keep chasing after her. But don’t expect me to sit around and watch you tear yourself apart.” She turned on her heel, storming out of the kitchen and up the stairs, leaving Anderson alone with his thoughts.

Anderson leaned against the counter, the weight of his frustration and confusion bearing down on him. He knew Agnes was right in some ways, but the stubborn part of him refused to let go. He had to believe there was still a chance to make things right, even if the path forward was unclear.

---

Back at the luxury resort, Michael and Martha reached the door of his cottage. Martha stopped, turning to face him with a playful glint in her eyes. “Remember this place?” she asked, her voice soft as she traced her fingers along the doorframe. “We used to sneak off to places like this all the time.”

Michael nodded, his thoughts still clouded by the alcohol and the lure of old memories. He reached for the door handle, but Martha caught his hand, pulling him closer. “Let’s not waste this moment,” she whispered, her lips brushing against his in a tentative kiss.

Michael hesitated, his mind battling the fog of temptation. But before he could respond, the door swung open behind him. Wanda stood there, her expression a mix of shock and sadness as she took in the scene before her. Martha, poised and confident, and Michael, caught off guard and too close for comfort.

“Wanda, this isn’t—” Michael began, his voice urgent as he pulled away from Martha. But Wanda held up her hand, her face pale and drawn.

“It’s fine,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. She glanced at Martha, then back at Michael, her eyes reflecting the hurt she couldn’t fully hide. “I just needed some air.”

Martha smiled slightly, stepping back with a casual shrug. “I was just leaving,” she said, her tone breezy as if nothing significant had occurred. She brushed past Wanda, her footsteps light as she disappeared down the hallway.

Wanda watched her go, her

heart heavy with the weight of everything unsaid. She turned back to Michael, her gaze searching his face for answers she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear. Michael looked at her, his own confusion and regret etched into his features. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words stuck in his throat, the distance between them growing with every silent second.

Wanda sighed, her resolve faltering. “I think I need some time,” she said softly, stepping back into the room. She closed the door behind her, leaving Michael alone in the hallway, his hand still resting on the doorframe as he stared at the spot where she had stood.

Michael leaned his head against the cool wood of the door, the regret settling in his chest like a stone. He had wanted to make things right, to bridge the gap between him and Wanda, but now it felt wider than ever. The past he thought he had moved on from was still there, lurking in every corner, pulling him back just when he thought he was free.

And as he stood there, the echoes of Martha’s words and Wanda’s pained expression played over in his mind, a reminder that some mistakes were harder to outrun than others.