Blood flooded my mouth. My face burned like it had been branded.
He gripped my jaw, fingers digging in like iron pincers. His eyes held nothing—no warmth, no remorse. "Alex Whitney is not a mistress. Understand?"
He shoved me back. I staggered, lost my footing, and slammed into the sharp corner of the table. Pain shot up my spine.
He scoffed at my grimace.
"I thought you were tough. What's a little bump?" His voice dropped to ice. "You want a divorce? Not without my signature. You will never escape me."
He loomed over me. "Three days. Pack your things and go care for Alex Whitney. Refuse, and you won't like what happens next."
He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Silence settled. In the quiet, a bitter truth crystallized. For years, I'd been the one to bow my head in every argument. I'd believed marriage meant compromise—that endurance would make it last.
I was wrong. My submission hadn't earned love. It had only emboldened him.
He ignored my feelings completely, treating me like a woman who threatened to leave but lacked the spine to follow through. The audacity—demanding I care for the woman who destroyed our marriage.