Strings Muffled by the Fog

I bit my lip until I tasted blood—metallic and sharp.

Jordan’s voice came through the earpiece, unnervingly gentle. "What could she possibly know? That orphan would be nothing without me. Dumb as a post. If my bastard rival hadn’t snatched her all those years ago and left her broken, would I have wasted years keeping her? If I hadn’t married her and she’d died, what would everyone think of Jordan?"

"She’s just a pet. Kept at home to keep up appearances. Don’t think about her, sweetheart. Everyone knows I only touch clean girls."

A wave of raucous laughter followed, broken by Jennifer’s coy, playful scolding.

"Jordan, you’re terrible…"

"Terrible? You haven’t seen anything yet…"

What came next was worse. Like a blunt, poisoned knife, it carved slowly through eight years of trust—through everything I’d believed was love.

Curled tight on the sofa, my whole body went cold, trembling like a leaf in a storm.

So it was all a lie. The “addiction.” The “restraint.” The “fear of hurting me.”

He could—he just thought I was tainted.

Those clusters of needle marks on his arm weren’t to suppress desire. They were boosters, for when the fun outside wasn’t enough.

His love? Pity. Charity. A prop for his “devoted husband” act.

And me? The genius doctor, the youngest PhD in the field, locked in a gilded cage like a worthless trinket… For eight years, I’d been his fool.

My phone buzzed. A message from Jordan.

*Margaret, where are you? The food’s getting cold. Are you feeling unwell again? Be good—I’ll wrap things up here and come home to you.*

I stared at the hollow words on the screen and laughed until tears streaked my face.

Slowly, I typed out a reply, one deliberate character at a time.

*Jordan, I want a divorce.*