The doctor, sensing the growing danger, tried to intervene. “Mr. Delaney, your wife has just been discharged. If her wound gets infected, it could be life-threatening…”
But Clifford remained unmoved, his voice icy cold.
“If you won’t tell the truth, then you don’t deserve to keep these hands.”
I looked up at him, eyes hollow. “Do whatever you want.”
The storm in his gaze swelled, and the next second, he slammed my injured hands down without mercy.
My vision went black. I lost consciousness instantly.
—
When I regained consciousness, I was back in the guest room. Both hands were tightly bandaged.
Clifford entered with a nurse, ready to change the dressings.
Pain surged as the gauze peeled away from torn skin. I inhaled sharply but bit my lip to keep from making a sound.
Before I’d passed out, I vaguely remembered hearing the doctor mention Denise’s test results—just a gastric spasm from overeating.
“This time… it had nothing to do with you. I was impulsive,” he said.
Then, as if that made things right, he added, “Does it hurt?”
There was a flicker of pity in his eyes as he reached out, wanting to personally re-bandage my wounds.
I turned away. “No need.”
He froze, hand suspended mid-air, then slowly pulled it back with an awkward expression.
“Faith,” he said, frustration laced in his voice. “I’ve already lowered myself like this. Why are you still so cold?”
I almost laughed.
He always did this. Even when he was the one who hurt me, I was expected to forgive him unconditionally—to be soft, gentle, and endlessly understanding.
Anything else, and I was labeled ungrateful.
I didn’t respond. Instead, I looked past him and gave a slight nod.
He turned.
Denise stood behind him, face pale. The moment their eyes met, she turned and fled.
Without hesitation, he chased after her.
Soon, the sound of her sobbing echoed from the living room.
“Don’t cry, Denise,” Clifford’s voice turned gentle, doting. “Your body’s still weak. I feel terrible seeing you like this…”
“Alright, alright,” he coaxed, “I promise—I'll never go into her room again. Happy now, my jealous little one?”
The nurse finished changing my dressings and left silently, her eyes full of sympathy.
Denise threw a childish tantrum, and he catered to her like she was made of glass.
Me? He accused without proof, tortured without hesitation—and still expected silence from me.
It was always this unfair.
But I was used to it.
—
That night, even with earplugs, I couldn’t block out the shrill cries from the master bedroom. Denise seemed determined to flaunt her presence—moaning loudly, as if putting on a show.
Morning came. I was alone.
As I stepped outside the room, I noticed a gown hanging by the door.
It reminded me—the company’s cocktail party was tonight. As the president’s wife, I was supposed to attend.
I reached for the dress and let out a bitter laugh.
The front was exquisite—pure elegance. But the back had been deliberately slashed to ribbons.
A petty act. Denise’s handiwork, no doubt.
My phone buzzed, dozens of messages flooding in.
Photos of Denise posing in luxurious gowns, each one more revealing than the last, a smug smile plastered across her face. Over a hundred pictures, flaunting her beauty, her victory.
Then came a video call.
“Faith,” she said sweetly, “I wanted to wear your dress, but Clifford insisted on buying me new ones. I’m so tired from trying them on. Which one do you think suits me best?”
In the corner of the screen, Clifford lounged on the sofa, watching her with quiet adoration.
I hung up without a word.
Seconds later, the phone rang again—his number.
His voice burst through, tight with fury and underscored by her soft sobs in the background.
“Faith! Denise was being polite, just asking your opinion. And you had the nerve to insult her?”
“How can a heartless woman like you be worthy of being the president’s wife?”
“You’re not going to the cocktail party tonight. Don’t even think about it.”
