The wife who used as a tool by her husband

The heavy oak doors of the villa closed behind me.

Discharged from the hospital, I stood in the quiet foyer of our shared home. My lower back throbbed from the marrow extraction. A pathetic sliver of hope still clung to my ribs. Maybe I had misunderstood his intentions at the hospital. Maybe he still loved me.

Midnight draped over the house as I walked up the curved staircase. My bare feet moved silently against the plush carpet.

"Fuck, Michael. Shove your cock deeper into my pussy."

The voice belonged to Judy.

I froze in the second-floor hallway. The study door stood an inch ajar. Golden light spilled across the hardwood floor.

"I am going to fuck you right against this desk, Judy," Michael grunted. "Spread your thighs wider."

I peered through the narrow crack.

Michael had her pinned against the mahogany wood. His pants were unbuckled, shoved down to his knees. He gripped her bare hips, thrusting his cock violently into her.

"Yes, fuck my wet cunt," Judy moaned loudly. "Harder."

"Look at me," Michael commanded.

Judy arched her spine. "Are you really giving it to me? The ten percent of the company shares?"

Michael drove into her again, his pace relentless. "As long as you're happy."

He leaned down, pressing his lips gently against her forehead.

"Forget ten percent," he whispered, his voice thick with lust. "The whole fucking company is yours."

Judy wrapped her naked legs around his waist. "What about your wife?"

"She has fulfilled her value."

Michael pounded into her one last time with a heavy groan. "I don't give a fuck about her anymore."

My knees hit the floorboards.

The wood bit into my skin. The lost baby. My stolen marrow. Seven years of my youth. It was all a transaction.

I pressed my forehead against the wall, listening to the wet sounds of his thrusts.

I retreated to the master bedroom.

The silence of our shared room mocked me. My eyes remained perfectly dry. The tears were completely gone.

I sat on the edge of the mattress. My fingers traced the cold screen of my phone. I dialed a number I had not touched in seven years.

The line rang twice.

"Lina?" Jacob asked.

His deep voice cracked the final wall of my composure.

"Brother," I whispered. "I want to come home."

Silence stretched across the cellular connection.

"Who hurt you?" Jacob demanded, his tone vibrating with suppressed fury.

"Everyone."

"Tell me exactly where you are. I am sending the jet."

I stared out the window at the glittering New York skyline.

"I will meet your crew at the private tarmac in California."

"Do not let him touch you again, Lina."

"He won't."

I ended the call. For the first time in years, I had a way out.

***

Sunlight flooded the dining room the next morning.

I sat at the long glass table, staring at my empty plate.

Michael walked through the archway, holding a massive bouquet of white roses. He wore a perfectly tailored suit and a mask of utter guilt.

"I neglected you these past few days," Michael said.

He set the flowers on the table. The sweet scent turned my stomach. They looked like funeral flowers.

I stirred my black coffee. "Did you?"

"I was stressed about work. About the crash." He pulled out a chair and sat across from me. "I booked a private trip to Hawaii for us. We leave today."

"Today."

He reached across the table and covered my hand with his. His skin felt like poison.

"I want to help you heal. I want to make up for losing our child."

I looked directly into his lying eyes. A smile stretched across my face.

"That sounds wonderful, Michael."

Relief washed over his features. "I knew you would understand."

He actually thought I forgave him.

***

My suitcase sat by the front door.

Michael checked his silver watch. "The driver is pulling up now."

His phone buzzed in his breast pocket. He pulled it out and answered.

"Judy? What is wrong?"

"My chest hurts," Judy sobbed through the speaker. "I feel dizzy, Michael. I am going to faint."

His face drained of color. He dropped his leather duffel bag onto the marble tiles.

"Did you call a nurse?" he asked frantically.

"I only want you," she cried.

"I am on my way," he promised.

He ended the call and turned to me.

"Judy is relapsing," he announced.

"We have a flight to catch."

"She might be dying, Lina. Have some compassion."

"You are leaving me here."

"Baby, go to the airport and wait for me," he ordered, already sprinting toward the garage door. "I will meet you there."

He grabbed his car keys from the ceramic bowl. The metal jingled sharply in the quiet foyer.

The heavy oak door slammed shut. He disappeared without a backward glance.

***

Three hours later, I stood alone in the center of the private terminal.

Travelers rushed past me, pulling luggage and checking departure boards.

My phone screen lit up with his messages.

*The doctors are running tests.*

*I might be late.*

*Go ahead and board the plane, I will follow tomorrow.*

I did not type a reply. I swiped left and dragged his contact into the blocked folder.

"Flight 884 to Honolulu is ready for boarding," the intercom blared.

I unzipped my purse. I bypassed the Hawaiian ticket and pulled out a different boarding pass.

The destination printed in bold black ink read: Los Angeles, California.

Seven years ago, I abandoned the Hawthorne family—the most powerful dynasty on the West Coast—to follow a man to New York.

I gave up my inheritance. I gave up my name.

Now, I was going home.

I handed my ticket to the gate agent.

"Welcome back, Miss Hawthorne," she smiled, scanning the barcode.

"Thank you."