“Drink this,” he whispered, kissing my forehead. “It’s for your recovery. You need to rest.”
I took it. I nodded. But the moment the door clicked shut, I walked to the bathroom and poured the white liquid down the sink.
I didn't sleep. I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. The house was quiet, but the walls were thin. All night, I listened to the muffled, rhythmic sounds of them moaning in the guest room.
“Yes, email the divorce papers.”
I spoke quietly into the phone, my back to the door, watching the city skyline from our bedroom window. My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
I hung up and turned around.
Brandon was standing right there.
I nearly dropped the phone. He was leaning against the doorframe, still in his suit from work, his face pale, eyes wide with a panic I had never seen before. He had heard me.
“Divorce?” he choked out. The word hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. He took a step toward me, his hands shaking. “Maureen, what… what do you mean, divorce?”
My blood ran cold. If he knew, if he realized I was leaving, the game was over. He would lock me down. He would drug me again.