Too Late, Mr. Husband, She's Hope

She cooked, cleaned, and mastered the art of espresso, pouring all her energy into their quiet life. But as she brought him his coffee, she found a bottl

a photo. It was a woman's pink-nailed hand, intimately on Dustin's thigh in his car, his Patek Philippe watch with its tell-tale scratch mocking her-a watch she had ne

m Dustin's study, came a rare, indulgent laugh. He was on speakerphone with his mistress, Jami, promising her the bracelet, and then, the poisoned blade: "Her? She

na stepped out from the shadows, her hand flat against the heav

't realize my recip

pte

a Van

lurring slightly from the rising steam. The machine let out a low, s

er. But when I chose to walk away from my father's arranged marriage and the billionaire heiress title that came with it, I had to learn. I spent weeks perf

f the porcelain, and a sharp sting made me wince. I pulled my hand back, ru

gar bowl. I dropped exactly two sugar cubes into the cup. I

alked out of the kitchen. My slippers made no sound a

rned my head to look at it out of pure habit. We were smiling in the picture, his arm w

was slightly ajar. I freed one hand and pushed the wood panel

t shiver, my shoulders pulling inward. I hated the cold. I had always been terrified of it. But Dustin insisted on keeping the AC at its lowest set

ssive desk. He wore his heavy noise-canceling headphones, his eye

screen, but the moment my shadow fell over his shoulder, his hand jerked on the mouse. He

d spun around in his ergonomic chair. For a fraction

teps faltered. I forced my stiff facial muscl

mask. He let out an annoyed sigh and waved his hand dismissively, gesturin

y-at-home wives, a toxic mix of the inferiority complex he carried from his po

of the desk. As I pulled my hands back, my gaze accidentally

thing s

on the desk. It was jarring, screaming for attention

led to find a logical excuse for it. *Maybe a female emplo

ght beside his mousepad was a delicate shark-bone bracelet.

d on my tongue, but my throat felt like it wa

r his ears and turned his chair around, his eyes locking back on

ried so hard to bury, flared up in agony. I bit down hard on my lower lip, tasting copper, and swallowed every single ques

I turned around and walked backward toward the door, step by step. The

y pulled the mahogany door shut, sealing

as I gasped for air. My heart was hammering against

, acidic sorrow welled up in my throat. I used to love manicures. I used to spend hours at the salon getting th

off the wall and walked back down the hallway.

p *ding*. It was a cheerful sound, reminding me that the elabora

one surface, leaning my weight onto my arms. I stared blankly at the water swir

a piercing buzz. In the dead silence of

iolently. I slowly turned my head

rom an unknown number.

. I swiped the screen to unlock it and tap

kes my