“You’re not even going to read it?”
She sneered.
“What’s there to read? You think everyone’s as dramatic as you?”
“Now leave. Jason’s still waiting for me inside.”
Watching her walk away, I let out a bitter laugh.
I still remembered the first time I met her—standing before me in a white dress, smiling shyly with grace and charm.
Now, though she still wore white, she was utterly unrecognizable.
She had lied to me again and again, and I had forgiven her again and again. She had come to believe I had no bottom line, and so she pushed further each time.
Reaching this point had probably been inevitable.
I shoved the divorce papers into my bag and went home.
That night, half-asleep, I smelled alcohol as Sophia stumbled in.
She yanked the covers off me, annoyed.
“You went to bed without waiting for me?”
In the past, whenever she went out drinking, I worried endlessly. I would prepare aspirin and water ahead of time.
But she never appreciated it—mocking me for being “fussy like a housewife.”
Remembering that, my eyes went cold.
“I figured you weren’t coming back tonight.”
She kicked at me irritably.
“This is my house. If I don’t come home, where else would I go?”