The scent coming from her body was the perfume that Brennen liked.
Unexpectedly, I accidentally pushed Yasmin, causing her to fall off the sofa and hit the coffee table with a muffled thud.
She immediately winced in sharp pain, her eyebrows furrowed, exclaiming, "Lawson! Did you just push me?"
She got up, clutching her lower back, took off her high heels, and smashed them towards my abdomen.
The freshly healed wound was struck, sending me into a daze of pain, and then I felt my strength drain away as I collapsed to the ground.
Without hesitation, she whipped out her phone, snapped a selfie of herself sprawled on the floor, and promptly uploaded it to Instagram. This was her standard modus operandi. Whenever I upset her, she'd resort to social media, painting herself as the victim and soliciting her friends' condemnation, with Brennen always leading the charge.
As a grown man, I should refrain from jealousy, creating a scene, or causing my wife any unhappiness.
However, my shortcomings were abundantly documented on her Instagram.
Though she eventually adjusted the privacy settings, she never deleted those posts.