Neglected Wife's Bitter Sweet Revenge

Elinor Frost POV:

His words hung in the sterile air, heavy and poisonous. "Who controlled who?" Braden's question, steeped in resentment, echoed in my ears long after he released my hand. The truth, stark and brutal, settled over me. He really did hate me. He hated me because I had dared to try to love him, to break through the walls he had built around himself. I had tried to make him feel, and that was unforgivable in his world.

I remembered Ava, the fiery artist he had loved before me. She was everything I wasn't-unrestrained, passionate, openly defiant. She had filled their apartment with her vibrant paintings, with laughter, with a chaotic energy that both thrilled and terrified Braden. He had been completely captivated by her, a raw, untamed passion burning in his eyes whenever he looked at her.

Destany, in a strange, superficial way, reminded him of Ava. She too was an artist, albeit a manufactured pop star, but she represented the life he had been forced to abandon. She was his link to the freedom he craved, the passion he couldn't have with me. But Destany was also carefully curated, manageable, unlike Ava.

Grandfather Harmon had despised Ava. He called her a "reckless bohemian" who would "ruin Braden's prospects." He had threatened to disinherit Braden, to cut off his career opportunities, to ensure he would never achieve his dream of building a music empire, if he didn't end things with Ava. Braden, ever the pragmatist, had chosen ambition over love. He severed ties with Ava, coldly, efficiently. But the scar remained.

He had resented me ever since, for being the "approved" choice, the one who stepped into Ava's place, the one who symbolized his gilded cage. He hated me because I was a constant reminder of the life he had been forced to give up. He projected all his anger, all his frustration, all his unfulfilled desires onto me. I was the convenient villain, the easily accessible target for his bitterness.

The realization was both absurd and profoundly sad. I had been the scapegoat, the punching bag for a man who couldn't reconcile his ambition with his heart. My love, my quiet efforts, my very presence, had become an unbearable burden to him.

Braden snatched the crumpled divorce papers from the bedside table, his face a thundercloud. He looked at them as if they were a curse, then crumpled them further. "One month, Elinor," he repeated, his voice low and firm. "That's all I'm asking." He turned and stalked out of the room, leaving me alone with the crushing weight of his twisted logic.

He didn't come back to the hospital. Not that day, or the next. My family, led by Guy, rallied around me, a fierce, protective shield. Guy, with his quiet strength, became my rock. He arranged for the best doctors, kept the media at bay, and made sure I had everything I needed. He brought me my favorite books, sat by my bedside, and just let me be, his presence a comforting anchor in the storm.

A few days later, I was discharged. Stepping back into the opulent, silent house felt strange, like returning to a crime scene. As I walked down the hall, a faint smell of burnt toast wafted from the kitchen. My brow furrowed in confusion. Braden was supposed to be touring with Destany.

I pushed open the kitchen door. Braden was there, standing awkwardly by the stove, a smoke detector chirping faintly in the background. A blackened frying pan sat on the burner, emitting wisps of smoke. He was wearing a ridiculously expensive silk robe, clearly out of his element. He looked up, startled, his face breaking into a hesitant smile.

"Elinor! You're home!" He rushed towards me, his arms outstretched. "I was just... making you breakfast in bed. Well, I tried to. It seems I'm not quite the chef you are." He gestured vaguely at the charred remains in the pan. He even tried to help me with my small overnight bag, reaching for it with an eagerness that felt utterly foreign.

I flinched away from his touch, a visceral reaction that surprised him. "I'm fine, Braden," I said, my voice flat. "And I'm not hungry." The sarcasm in my voice was a sharp edge I hadn't known I possessed.

His smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of disappointment. It was a genuine flicker, and for a moment, I almost felt a pang of something akin to sympathy. Then I remembered his words, his cruel accusations, his public betrayals. The memory of his casual dismissal of my cooking, and his subsequent hunger-induced rage over my refusal to prepare it, was a bitter pill to swallow. He was suffering now, perhaps, but it was nothing compared to the years of quiet agony he had inflicted on me. He was getting a taste of his own medicine.

I walked past him, ignoring his attempt at a conciliatory gesture. The smell of burnt food mingled with the faint scent of his cologne, a sickening combination. I went straight to my room, locking the door behind me.

Later that evening, after the housekeeper had cleared the burnt offerings, there was a tentative knock on my door. "Elinor? It's Braden. I brought you something."

I ignored him. After a moment, the door creaked open. He stepped in, holding a steaming mug. "I made you a calming herbal tea," he said, setting it on my bedside table. "For relaxation. The nurse said it helps with... morning sickness." He sat on the edge of the bed, too close, his gaze intense.

The sweet, cloying smell of chamomile instantly turned my stomach. I felt a wave of nausea, sharp and sudden. My hand flew to my mouth, and I barely made it to the bathroom before I emptied the contents of my stomach.

Braden was there in an instant, his face etched with genuine concern. He was holding my hair back, his touch surprisingly gentle. "Elinor, are you okay? What's wrong? Is it the tea? I thought it would help."

I pushed his hand away, weakly. "I hate chamomile tea, Braden," I choked out, wiping my mouth.

He stared at me, genuinely confused. "But... you used to drink it all the time. You said it was your favorite."

I remembered the countless times he had offered me chamomile tea when I was stressed, sick, or just sad. And every time, I had forced a smile, thanked him, and choked it down, pretending to like it because it was his gesture of "comfort." I had been so desperate for any sign of his affection that I had suppressed my own preferences, my own tastes, my own identity. I had been a fool.

"My tastes have changed, Braden," I said, my voice cold, devoid of any warmth. Then I turned my back to him, signaling the end of the conversation.

He left a few minutes later, still looking bewildered.

A few nights later, I was woken by hushed voices downstairs. I crept to the top of the stairs, peering down. My mother and father were there, talking to Braden.

"Oh, so the little one finally decided to make an appearance?" my mother chuckled, her voice carrying up the stairs. "Well, Braden, congratulations. This is certainly... unexpected." She patted his arm, a knowing glint in her eyes.

Braden smiled, a wide, almost triumphant grin. "Thank you, Mother-in-law. We're very happy." He shot a glance up the stairs, knowing I was there, listening. He was forcing my hand, announcing my pregnancy to my parents, securing his hold on me through our child. It was a calculated move, a desperate attempt to trap me in this marriage. I felt a cold surge of anger. He was twisting the knife, using our unborn child as a pawn in his manipulative game.

The last thing I remembered was his satisfied smile, the way his eyes glittered with a dangerous triumph. He was cornering me. And I hated him for it.