Matteo’s words echoed in my head.
He had said that to me the night he found me. When he barged into that filthy warehouse, his fists bloodied, his face twisted with rage. I was tied to a chair, my body weak, my face bruised from the beatings I had endured.
And then—he had lifted me into his arms, whispering, “It’s over. I have you now.”
I had believed him.
Back then, he had been my savior. The only light in my darkness.
I had clung to him, even after the trauma. He had been patient, understanding, wiping away my tears in the middle of the night when the nightmares came. He had kissed my scars, promising that they didn’t make me any less beautiful.
I had thought his love was my salvation.
But now, as I sat in the same house we built together, in the same bed where we whispered dreams about our future—he wasn’t my hero anymore.
He was my worst betrayal.
I walked to our bedroom, placed the divorce papers on the nightstand, and turned away. I didn’t want to see this room again. I didn’t want to be reminded of the life we shared—the life he had destroyed.