The mistress shrieked and threw herself into his arms, terrified.
He turned around and saw me watching. With a smirk, he scooped her up in a princess carry and threw her onto the bed, nuzzling her.
If I weren't the scorned wife, this scene would look like something out of a romance drama.
From high school to the wedding aisle, I'd given my youth to this jerk.
We'd been married for five years, and he'd been cheating since year three.
It started subtly. Eventually, he didn't even bother hiding it. He brought his mistresses to our bed.
At first, I cried, yelled, and even considered suicide. In my rage, I clawed his face until it bled, but he never argued back or fought me. He just refused to change. Eventually, he stopped pretending to care.
I decided to get a divorce, but that sly man had planned his every move.
If I really left, I'd be an almost-thirty woman, and everything I'd worked for over the years wouldn't be mine anymore.
Easton would still elegantly pinch my chin, mocking me with veiled threats. He said if I quit my job and became the perfect housewife, he wouldn't mind rewarding me with a limited-edition black card.