My Husband Punished Me for a Child That Was Never His Rival's

The warm yellow light of the living room spilled across the marble floor, stopping inches from my shoes.

I stood perfectly still under the entryway chandelier.

Damien sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, his dress shirt entirely gone. His bare chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Colette knelt between his legs, wearing nothing but black lace lingerie. She pressed her cheek against his exposed stomach, her hands tracing the lines of his waist.

Neither of them looked toward the door.

I didn't scream. I didn't demand an explanation. I didn't throw my purse at his head.

I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out my house keys, and set them down on the polished mahogany shoe cabinet.

Clack.

The metal rang out against the wood, sharp and loud in the quiet house.

Colette jerked backward. She scrambled onto her knees, yanking frantically at the thin straps of her black lace bra. Her eyes darted toward the entryway, wide with terror.

Damien didn't jump. He turned his head. His dark eyes locked onto mine.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the words died in his throat. His gaze drifted upward, fixing on my left cheek. The red, swollen handprint he had given me yesterday still burned against my pale skin. Dried tears cracked along my jawline.

"Vivian," he started, his voice thick.

I didn't answer. I walked straight into the living room.

My shoes struck the hardwood flooring. One step. Two steps.

I bypassed Colette completely. She shrank back against the base of the sofa, clutching her bare arms over her chest, trying to make herself as small as possible.

I stopped at the glass coffee table. Damien's phone sat right on the edge.

I picked it up. The screen lit up in my palm. I swiped up, bypassed the lock screen, and opened the keypad.

"What are you doing?" Damien asked. He leaned forward, the muscles in his arms flexing as he braced his hands on his knees.

I punched in a ten-digit number from memory. I pressed the green call button and lifted the phone to my ear.

It rang twice.

"Hello?" a deep voice answered.

"Prepare the documents," I said.

I pulled the phone away and hit end. The call timer flashed on the screen: 00:12. Twelve seconds.

I tossed the phone back onto the glass table. It spun once before coming to a stop.

Damien stared at the device, then looked back up at me. The smug arrogance he usually wore had vanished. "Who did you just call?"

I didn't look at him. My eyes caught on something else.

Down on the floor, right next to Colette's bare knee, sat Damien's leather briefcase. The brass clasps were undone. The flap hung open.

A thick stack of papers spilled out of the side. The top sheet was a photocopy. The black-and-white header bore the logo of Dr. Farrow's Clinic. My name sat right below it.

Colette had stolen my medical records. The very same files I told Damien were in my purse yesterday afternoon. She had dug through my belongings, copied my private history, and handed it directly to my husband.

I stared at the black lace digging into Colette's ribs, then at the clinic logo. I kept my mouth shut. I didn't point it out. I didn't demand an explanation. The truth was already rotting right in front of me, and exposing it would only give them the satisfaction of an argument.

"Vivian, answer me." Damien stood up. He towered over the coffee table, his bare chest catching the overhead light. "Who was on the phone?"

"My lawyer," I said, meeting his gaze.

Colette gasped softly from the floor.

"Get out," Damien snapped, not looking at the maid.

Colette scrambled to her feet, grabbing her discarded uniform dress from the armchair. She didn't bother putting it on. She just clutched the fabric to her chest and ran out of the room, her bare feet slapping against the floorboards.

The heavy silence returned, thicker this time.

"Your lawyer," Damien repeated. He rounded the coffee table, closing the distance between us. "For what?"

"You know for what."

He scoffed, a harsh, grating sound. "You're throwing a tantrum. Because of her?" He gestured vaguely toward the hallway where Colette had disappeared. "Nothing happened."

"I don't care what happened." I turned to leave.

Damien grabbed my wrist. His fingers clamped down hard over my pulse point.

"Release me," I said.

He didn't loosen his grip. He yanked me closer. The smell of scotch and sweat rolled off his skin.

"You think you can just walk in here, make a twelve-second phone call, and end this?" he demanded.

"Yes." I kept my voice entirely flat.

"After everything?" He searched my eyes, looking for the hysterical, weeping wife he had left behind yesterday. He found nothing. "You disappeared for an entire night. You come back looking like a stray dog, and you think you hold the power here?"

"I hold my own life, Damien."

"You disappeared for twenty-four hours," Damien said, his voice lowering into an accusatory growl. "Where did you sleep?"

"That is none of your concern anymore."

"It is entirely my concern. You are my wife."

"Not for much longer."

"You think a piece of paper changes what you owe me?"

"I owe you nothing."

"I paid for your brother's funeral. I kept your pathetic little studio from going bankrupt before we married."

"And then you locked me out of it."

He flinched. Just a micro-expression, a tiny tightening of his jaw, but I caught it.

"I protected you," Damien said coldly. "I gave you a life most women would kill for."

"You gave me a cage."

"You were out with Elias!" he shouted, the rage finally breaking through his composed facade. "Don't stand there and play the victim when you spent the entire night with another man!"

I didn't flinch. The volume of his voice meant nothing to me anymore.

"Prepare the divorce papers," I said, repeating the order I gave my lawyer. "They will arrive by tomorrow morning."

I pulled my arm back, trying to break his hold.

Damien slammed his other hand down on top of mine, pinning my fingers flat against the glass of the coffee table. The impact sent a shockwave up my elbow.

He leaned in close, his face inches from mine. For the first time since I met him, the absolute certainty in his eyes wavered. A flicker of genuine doubt crossed his features.

"Think this through," Damien warned, his voice dropping to a dangerous, uneven whisper. "If you leave this house, you take absolutely nothing."