"You little tyrant."
"My wife is home, you know," he cooed into the phone. "Aren't you worried she'll hack you to pieces?"
"If she actually hits you, don't come crying to me."
I stood there as he flirted like I was invisible. The girl on the phone laughed, utterly unbothered.
"You won't let that happen."
"You promised you'd protect me!"
I knew what I was supposed to do.
Stay silent. Let him leave. Give him his space. That's what everyone said—as long as you're Mrs. Sanchez, you'll never want for anything. You can keep living like royalty. Your mother in the hospital will get the best care money can buy.
But I was done.
Done pretending. Done swallowing my pride.
I snatched the phone from his hand. His eyes went wide, but before he could react, I spoke directly into it.
"That's right. Mrs. Sanchez is very violent." My voice was ice. "You set one foot through this door, and you'll leave on a stretcher."
The girl's shrieks exploded through the speaker—shameless bitch, how dare you—but I was already hurling the phone at the marble floor. It shattered with a satisfying crack.
Then I threw open the villa's front door.
She was standing right there. Face flushed. Eyes blazing.