Husband's Attack, Wife's Justice

The blue light of my laptop screen cast shadows across my face as I typed furiously, the keys clicking softly in the darkness of our bedroom. It was 2:17 AM. Enzo slept beside me, his breathing deep and even, utterly oblivious to the fact that I was awake, working.

I glanced at him—his handsome face relaxed in sleep, looking almost innocent. How deceptive appearances could be.

"The Art of Betrayal," I whispered to myself, reading the title of my latest chapter. "Fitting, isn't it?"

My fingers flew across the keyboard as I channeled every ounce of rage, every moment of humiliation into the story. The protagonist—a woman named Claire—was discovering her husband's affair with the young woman she'd mentored. The parallels weren't subtle, but I didn't care. This wasn't literature; it was therapy.

"Another chapter uploaded," I murmured, hitting the publish button on Kindle Vella. I watched as the view counter ticked upward almost immediately. People were reading it—lots of people. The comments section overflowed with messages of support and encouragement.

"You're not alone," one reader had written. "This is my story too."

I closed the laptop and slipped back under the covers, my mind racing. The story was becoming more than just an outlet—it was becoming my salvation. Each chapter I wrote was another step toward freedom.

---

"Check your email," James Morrison had written in his message. "I think we need to talk."

I opened my inbox and found his email waiting:

"Ariana—your Vella story has caught fire. I've been tracking the metrics, and they're extraordinary. The engagement numbers are through the roof. I'd like to represent you for a traditional publishing deal. This could be huge."

I stared at the screen, my heart pounding. A publishing deal. Real money. Independence.

"Think about it," he'd concluded. "But don't think too long. Opportunities like this don't wait."

I closed my eyes, imagining a future where I wasn't tied to Enzo or his family. Where I could walk away and still thrive.

"You need to decide soon," I whispered to myself, just as Enzo stirred beside me.

---

Sunday brunch was a Howell family tradition—one I'd always dreaded. Today would be different.

"More coffee, Ariana?" Margaret asked, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "You look tired."

"I'm fine," I replied, taking a sip from my cup. The apartment was filled with the scent of freshly baked croissants and fresh fruit—courtesy of the caterer Enzo had insisted on hiring.

Bianca sat at the far end of the table, picking at her food while Richard dominated the conversation with talk of stocks and investments. Enzo nodded along, playing the attentive son.

I waited until everyone was settled, until the moment felt right.

"Excuse me," I said suddenly, standing up. "I need to..."

The room tilted dramatically. I grabbed the edge of the table and swayed, my face pale.

"Ariana!" Enzo jumped up, catching me before I could fall. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know," I whispered, leaning into him. "I've been feeling strange all week."

Margaret and Richard exchanged glances—those calculating looks I'd grown to recognize.

"Sit down, dear," Margaret said, her voice suddenly warm with concern. "Have you seen a doctor?"

"Not yet," I replied, sinking back into my chair. "I was going to schedule an appointment."

Bianca watched from across the table, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"Oh!" I exclaimed, as if remembering something. "I almost forgot." I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small plastic stick. "I did this test this morning."

The pregnancy test showed a clear positive result.

The room went silent for a heartbeat before erupting in chaos.

"Pregnant?" Richard boomed, his face lighting up. "You're pregnant?"

"Oh, Ariana!" Margaret squealed, rushing to embrace me. "This is wonderful news!"

Enzo stood frozen, his expression unreadable as his parents fussed over me.

"Enzo," his father clapped him on the shoulder. "You're going to be a father!"

The transformation was immediate and complete. Margaret insisted I take the best seat at the table. Richard poured me more juice, insisting I needed the vitamins. And Bianca?

She might as well have been invisible.

"Bring me that plate," Margaret ordered her, pointing to a dish across the room. "And be careful—don't spill anything."

Bianca rose silently, her face a mask of hurt and confusion as she retrieved the plate.

"Is everything okay?" I asked innocently, watching her carefully.

"Fine," she muttered, not meeting my eyes.

I turned to Enzo, who was now beaming with pride—whether genuine or not, I couldn't tell.

"We're going to have a baby," I said softly, reaching for his hand.

His fingers tightened around mine, his smile never wavering. But his eyes—his eyes kept darting to Bianca, who stood in the corner like a servant.

The power had shifted. And I was just getting started.