Once inside, he turned to me, his face red with anger, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His voice, when he spoke, was low but sharp, like a blade slicing through the thick silence between us.
"Who gave you permission to abort the baby, Jane?"
His question, filled with venom, cut through me. His voice dripped with outrage, as if he were the victim in all of this, as if he hadn’t betrayed me first. My stomach churned with a mix of anger and exhaustion.
"Who gave me permission?" I repeated, my voice trembling but defiant. "Who gave you permission to cheat on me? Who gave you the right to break our marriage and still expect me to carry your child?"
Mark’s face hardened, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "I’m your husband. I have every right to question you."
"Husband?" I laughed bitterly, shaking my head. "Is that what you call yourself? A husband? You've been parading around with that girl and you expect me to stay here and play the doting wife?"