Our Love Story Ends in Blood – Season 2, Part 2

Her words lingered in the air like smoke—“I’m pregnant.” I should have felt joy, hope, a new beginning. But all I felt was fear. Not the kind that sends you running, but the kind that roots deep inside your chest and grows like rot. Love was having my child. Love, the woman who slit Candace’s throat. Love, who saw the worst in me and didn’t flinch—because she had her own.

I told her I was happy. I smiled. I kissed her. I played the role of a man who had everything. But behind my smile, I screamed. Because now I was trapped. Love didn’t love me; she possessed me. And this child… he was the chain around my ankle. I had tried to change. I ran across the country to become someone better, someone safe. But darkness had followed me here—worse, it had married me.

We moved to Madre Linda. A suburb wrapped in organic skin care, mommy blogs, and green juice. To Love, it was a fresh start. To me, it was a prison. The neighbors were too nosy, too perfect. Everything was fake, including me. But I smiled. I watered the lawn. I played the part. And inside, I built a cage. Not a metaphor. A real cage, hidden in the basement. Because I knew sooner or later, someone would need it.

Love flourished. She baked. She volunteered. She nested. I watched from a distance, a stranger in my own life. Then I met Natalie. She lived next door. Red wine at dusk. Silk robes. A past hidden behind polished eyes. She was different. Dangerous. She flirted once. Touched my wrist. That’s all. But Love noticed. And when Love noticed, people vanished.

Natalie disappeared. Love said she moved. That she and her husband had a fight and she left. But I found her bracelet buried beneath our rose bush. The same one Love said she was “replanting.” I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t have to. I knew what she was capable of. What I was capable of.

I tried to forgive. For Henry’s sake. Our son deserved parents—not monsters. But it wasn’t easy. Especially when I met Marienne. She worked at the library. Quiet. Thoughtful. Wounded. Her daughter was her world. She was trying to stay clean. Trying to rebuild. I saw in her the life I wanted—the person I might have been if the world had been kinder.

I watched her. Not like before. Not to control. Just to be close. Her voice calmed me. Her kindness felt like oxygen. I fell in love. Real love. Not obsession. Not a project. But something pure. And for a moment, I believed I could escape. That I could take Henry and disappear. Start again.

But Love found out. Of course she did.

She confronted Marienne. Told her the truth. About Beck. About Candace. About the box in the basement. About me. And Marienne ran. Took her daughter and vanished. I don’t blame her. She did what I should have done long ago.

Then came Theo. The college kid. The neighbor’s stepson. Too young. Too reckless. Too in love with my wife. I saw the texts. The glances. The late-night visits. At first, I thought Love was manipulating him. But the truth hurt more—she wasn’t. She liked him. Needed him. And he was dumb enough to believe he could save her.

One night, he followed me. Down into the basement. Into the cage. And he saw it. Everything. The blood. The books. The truth. I begged him to leave. To forget. But he couldn’t. He wanted to help Love. The irony burned. So I pushed him. Down the stairs. I didn’t mean to kill him. Just silence him.

He lived. Barely.

Love didn’t care. “He was just a distraction,” she said. She wanted me to let go of Marienne, forget everything, and raise our child together. “We’re soulmates,” she said. “We’re the same.” But we weren’t. She killed out of jealousy. I killed out of fear. She killed for control. I killed trying to survive. She thought that made us equal. It didn’t.

And then… she tried to kill me.

Dinner was quiet. Candlelight. Peach tart. She said she forgave me. Said she understood. And then my throat started to close. The room spun. I couldn’t breathe. “I had to,” she whispered. “You were leaving me. I can’t lose you.” Her voice trembled. “We’re a family.”

But she made a mistake. She left the knife too close. My fingers wrapped around the handle. My vision blurred, but I didn’t stop. I drove the blade into her side. Once. Twice. Her eyes widened. She gasped. Blood pooled across the tablecloth she had hand-stitched for Henry’s birthday.

“I still love you,” she choked.

And then she fell.

I stared at her body. My wife. The mother of my child. The woman who mirrored my sins and magnified them. I held her hand until it went cold. And then I went to work. I wrote a letter. Forged her handwriting. A confession. A suicide note. I set the house on fire, made it look like she snapped. A desperate housewife. A tragic end. The neighbors bought it. The police barely blinked.

Joe Goldberg was dead.

Love Quinn was a murderer.

And Henry? Henry deserved better.

I left him at a good home. A place safe from people like me.

And then I vanished.

New name.

New country.

Paris.

Because somewhere out there, Marienne was still breathing.

Still waiting.

And if I have to cross oceans to find her…

I will.

Because I’m not done yet.

I still believe in love.

Even if it kills me.