Reborn As Mr. Coldwell's Wife
Chapter 191: The Obsession

Chapter 191: The Obsession

The cozy cabin sat deep in the forest, miles from the busy city and nosy neighbors. Its wood was all weathered and old, weathered by time, but it was sturdy enough to keep the outside world at bay. The place was low on light, only brightened by the TV’s flickering screen casting creepy shadows everywhere.

The man sat in an old, worn-out armchair, the faded fabric matching the rest of the shabby but strangely organized surroundings. He was dressed in black jeans and a gray hoodie, merging into the dull atmosphere around him. He sat casually, his legs stretched out, eyes glued to the TV screen as the news anchor went on about boring city stuff.

But his mind wasn’t focused on the news. His mind was stuck on one obsession—an endless hunger for revenge that had eaten away at him for years. His lips twitched into a smirk as he watched the screen, though nothing about the broadcast was amusing. After a few moments, he hit the remote to turn off the TV, and the room fell silent. He sighed and lifted his arms overhead, feeling his muscles all tight.

The room had minimal decor, except for one wall—a wall that told the story of his madness. The entire surface was covered in photographs, carefully pinned and arranged.

Faces stared back at him: Mason Coldwell, Ellen Coldwell, James Coldwell, Margaret Coldwell, and Ian Coldwell. Their lives were captured in pictures, from moments they shared in public to private snapshots he had stolen without them ever realizing. There was something off about how carefully each photo was arranged, like he was putting together a puzzle.

He got up from the chair, taking his time. He moved across the squeaky floor, his worn boots making quiet thuds as he headed toward the photo wall. His hand rose, fingers hovering over the picture of James Coldwell, a candid shot taken at some outdoor event. The man’s lips twisted into a sinister grin as his fingertips traced the outline of James’s face.

"Finished," he whispered coldly.

He moved to the next photo, Margaret Coldwell, standing beside her husband at a charity gala. His smirk widened as he ran his fingers over her face, slowly, savoring the moment.

"Finished."

His hand slid down to Ian Coldwell’s picture. Ian was smiling in the photo, looking carefree. The man’s fingers traced Ian’s jawline before pulling back slightly. He tilted his head, as if studying Ian’s face before letting the same word slip from his lips.

"Finished."

It was obvious that he was feeling satisfied. His smirk faltered as his hand moved to the next photo—Ellen Coldwell, Caught while unloading groceries onto the conveyor belt at the register.

He stared at her picture, his expression turning serious while his fingertips tapped on it again and again, like he was stuck between frustration and doubt. Each strike harder than the last, his eyes narrowing as though Ellen herself was standing before him.

Suddenly, his fist slammed into the wall, directly on top of Ellen’s photo. The sound echoed in the quiet cabin, making the whole place vibrate a bit. He stood there, breathing heavily, glaring at her picture as if it had somehow wronged him.

"Why..." he muttered. "Why didn’t it work?"

His mind drifted back to the day he almost hit her with his car. He could still see it in his head—the way she stood in the street, oblivious, like a lamb to the slaughter. His foot had pressed down on the gas, his heart pounding with anticipation. But then, at the last second, someone had pulled her out of harm’s way. He gritted his teeth, feeling the tension build as the memory flashed in his mind like a nightmare he couldn’t escape.

"Someone always helps her," he hissed through clenched teeth. "But... there’ll be other chances."

He breathed out slowly, trying to calm himself down, loosening the tension in his shoulders. Slowly, he straightened up, pulling his hand away from the wall. The rage was still there, but he decided to bury it for now. There was no rush.

Revenge was a dish best served cold, after all.

With a quiet sigh, he turned away from the wall and walked over to the small, old fridge tucked in the corner of the cabin. The door creaked as he opened it, and the light inside blinked weakly. He grabbed a can of soda, the cold metal instantly soothing against his warm skin. He cracked it open with a nice pop and took a big sip, letting the sweetness coat his tongue as he leaned back against the counter.

His eyes flickered to the wall again, settling on Mason’s photo this time. The shot was a candid one, Mason sitting at a cafe, deep in chat with someone out of frame. The man raised his soda can toward the picture, almost as if offering a toast.

"Everything will fall apart soon," he whispered, almost to himself. "And you won’t even see it coming."

He took another long sip of the soda, still staring at Mason’s photo, as if mentally preparing himself for the confrontation to come. There was no rush. No need to hurry. Everything had been set in motion. He had already taken so much from Mason, bit by bit, without him even realizing. And soon, very soon, Mason would know the full extent of the pain he had caused.

The man’s smirk widened as he drained the rest of the soda and crushed the empty can in his hand, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and walked back toward the wall, his fingers reaching out to Mason’s photo once more.

"Catch you later, bro," he said with a grin, his eyes glimmering with a dangerous kind of satisfaction.

The room felt colder, with nothing but the noise of his boots on the floor as he stepped back, taking one last look at the wall before turning away.

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