My Fiance Chose His Ex 18 Times

"Did you hear me, Hannah?" Eleanor demanded, her voice shrill through the phone speaker. "You do not just pull out of a mortgage four months before the wedding. You are ruining his credit."

I stood in the center of the ruined living room, staring at the peeling wallpaper. "I didn't ruin anything."

"Then put the funds back immediately. Ben is stressed enough with his job. He doesn't need his fiancée throwing a tantrum over a minor delay."

"It isn't a minor delay, Eleanor. He drained our account."

"He explained the situation to me. Olivia was in a bind, and Ben stepped up to help a single mother. That is the kind of generous man I raised. You should be proud of him, not abandoning him."

I kicked a loose piece of baseboard across the dusty floor. "I am not returning the funds."

"Why on earth not? You have the transfer receipt."

"Because the money that belonged to me was already spent by your son."

"What are you talking about? Ben is incredibly responsible with your joint finances."

"Ask him about Olivia's rent," I said.

"Hannah, do not change the subject to—"

I pressed the red icon on the screen. The call dropped, cutting off her lecture. I tapped Eleanor's contact profile, scrolled to the bottom of the menu, and hit block.

Heavy footsteps echoed from the stairwell.

Theo walked through the open doorway. He carried two massive plastic buckets of white primer by their wire handles. A folded white protective suit rested over his forearm.

He set the buckets down. The heavy thud shook a loose piece of plaster from the ceiling, sending a fine white powder drifting onto his tailored shoulder. He brushed it off without looking.

"You're early," I said, slipping my phone into my back pocket.

"I figured you would need the right tools before the demo crew gets here."

He stepped back out into the hallway. A loud scrape of metal against wood followed. He dragged a long, steel-handled sledgehammer across the threshold and tossed it forward. The heavy iron head slammed onto the warped floorboards right at my feet.

I stared at the weapon.

Theo pointed a gloved finger toward the bloated partition dividing the kitchen from the living space.

"You wanted the non-load-bearing wall gone," he said. "Start swinging."

I looked from the hammer to the moldy drywall. "I have no idea how to do this."

"Hit it until it breaks. There is no technique." Theo tossed a pair of scratched safety goggles onto the plywood table. "Put those on first. I refuse to drive you to the emergency room today."

I picked up the goggles and pulled the elastic strap over the back of my head. The plastic lenses smudged my vision, but the rotting wall remained perfectly clear.

I bent down and wrapped my fingers around the cold steel handle. It weighed at least ten pounds. Dragging it upward, my shoulders ached instantly.

"Wider stance," Theo instructed. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "Use your hips. Don't just swing with your arms. Let the weight of the iron do the work."

I shifted my boots apart, planting them firmly on the uneven linoleum. I fixed my eyes on a dark water stain shaped like a crescent moon in the center of the drywall.

I swung.

The iron head crashed through the brittle plaster. A cloud of gray dust exploded into the air. The sound cracked like a gunshot in the empty apartment.

"Again," Theo said, his voice cutting through the ringing in my ears.

I pulled the hammer back, twisting my torso, and swung harder. The drywall splintered. Chunks of white chalk and yellowed paper rained down onto the floor.

I swung a third time. The iron smashed through a wooden slat.

"Keep going," Theo urged.

Six years of packing turkey sandwiches while he bought Olivia lattes.

I ripped the hammer out of the hole and drove it forward again.

Waiting on the porch in the freezing rain for a showing he never attended.

The metal bit into the wall, tearing a massive jagged gap in the center.

The vanilla and jasmine perfume on his jacket.

I swung the hammer in a relentless rhythm. My arms burned. Sweat dripped down my neck, soaking the collar of my shirt. The hole in the wall grew larger, exposing the wooden studs and tangled, dead wires inside. Dust coated my throat, but I refused to stop.

Every lie. Every excuse. Every time he told me I was overreacting.

"Hit the strut," Theo commanded, pointing to the thick wooden beam in the center.

I drove the sledgehammer into the wood.

The entire center section of the partition collapsed inward with a deafening crunch. Plaster shattered across the kitchen tiles, sending a thick wave of debris rolling across the room.

My chest heaved. I dropped the hammer. The metal handle clattered against the rubble. I pulled off the goggles, gasping for air. My lungs burned, but the heavy, suffocating weight that had sat on my chest for years was gone.

I wiped the gritty dust from my forehead with the back of my wrist.

"Better?" Theo asked.

He stepped over the fallen plaster, holding a red steel crowbar.

"Much." I coughed, waving the dust away from my face. "I think I want to tear down the cabinets next."

"Pace yourself," Theo said. "The crew will handle the high stuff. You have a good swing, though."

"I had a lot of motivation."

"I can tell." He tapped the crowbar against a surviving piece of baseboard. "Did Eleanor call?"

"How did you know?"

"Ben is predictable. When he loses control, he sends his mother to guilt-trip you back into submission."

"It didn't work."

"Good."

Rapid, heavy footsteps pounded up the wooden stairs outside.

The sound was frantic, skipping steps, echoing loudly through the quiet hallway. Someone was running.

I turned toward the open doorway just as a figure rounded the landing.

Ben.

He wore the same damp jacket from yesterday. His hair was disheveled, his chest rising and falling rapidly from the climb. He stopped dead in his tracks at the threshold.

His eyes darted from the shattered drywall to the sledgehammer at my feet, then slowly traveled up to my dust-covered face.

"Hannah?" he choked out, his voice cracking.

He stepped into the apartment, his gaze shifting past me.

Ben froze, his expression contorting into absolute shock as he stared at the man standing right beside me, gripping a steel crowbar.