Elisa POV:
That was the moment. That was the last shred of my heart that died. Kiyoshi' s words, the coldness in Luna' s eyes, Joette' s relentless cruelty-it all solidified into an unyielding resolve. I wasn't staying for love. Love was a fragile thing, easily broken, and mine had long since turned to dust. I was staying for leverage, for a chance at freedom.
I wouldn't play his games anymore. The submissive wife, the heartbroken victim-that Elisa was gone. Kiyoshi' s smug smile faltered, then vanished completely. His eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint appearing in their depths. He lunged, his hand wrapping around my throat, pushing me back against the hospital bed. The fresh incision from my hysterectomy screamed in protest, a sharp, burning pain spreading through my abdomen. I felt the familiar warmth of blood seeping through the bandage.
My IV line, still attached to my hand, snagged on the bedframe, pulling taut. The needle ripped free, leaving a thin trail of blood welling up on my skin. He didn't even notice. He just stared at me, his face contorted with rage.
"How dare you say that?" he snarled, his voice a low growl. "How dare you pretend you don't love me? After everything, Elisa, you still think I'm a fool? You only care about money, don't you? You sold yourself to my grandmother, you sold your dignity for a life of luxury! Don't deny it!"
He pulled out his phone, his thumb swiping rapidly. A video flashed on the screen, a private moment, a humiliating memory. "Look at this, Elisa," he commanded, forcing the phone close to my face. "Look at yourself. Begging. Crying. Telling me you'd do anything to win me back. Was that a performance too? Was that all for show? Why, Elisa? Why would you pretend to love me if it wasn't real? Tell me! Tell me why you dared to say you don't love me!"
Heidi, who had been hovering nervously in the doorway, flinched back at his outburst, her face pale with fright. I just smiled, a small, sad smile that didn't reach my eyes. He was so utterly, hopelessly deluded. So convinced of his own narrative, his own pain.
He thought he knew me. He thought he knew what made me tick, what would break me. He believed his own lies, the convenient story that I was a gold-digger, a mercenary, bought and paid for by his grandmother. He couldn't fathom the truth: that I had loved him, truly and deeply, and that his cruelty had systematically dismantled every ounce of that love.
I remembered the day I first brought up divorce, years ago, after his first public affair. I had been heartbroken, but still clinging to a sliver of hope. The entire Donovan family had descended upon me, a phalanx of disapproving faces. "You will not leave Kiyoshi," Joette had declared, her voice cold and unyielding. "You are his wife. You will bear his children. This family does not entertain such foolishness."
Kiyoshi had smirked, a cruel glint in his eyes. He hadn't wanted me to leave. He wanted me to stay, to suffer, to be his constant reminder of what he believed was my betrayal. My acceptance letter to the prestigious architectural program abroad, painstakingly earned, had been ripped to shreds by Joette, right in front of me. "Your place is here, Elisa," she' d said, the torn paper fluttering to the ground like discarded dreams. "With your husband. You will fulfill your duties as a Donovan wife. You will have no other life, no other dreams, no other joys or sorrows, but those we dictate." My future, my passion, my very identity-all stripped away, piece by agonizing piece.
