I lifted my head, meeting his bloodshot eyes with a cold, mocking smile.
“Six years, Rio. Six years. I gave up my career for you. I cooked for you, bent over backward to please your family and friends. And after everything, you still never truly saw me. You think I’m playing a game?”
My voice wasn’t loud, but every word cut like a blade, sinking deep into his heart.
He froze, as if seeing me clearly for the first time, a flicker of panic flashing in his eyes.
“Hazel, I—”
“Tell me, Rio. Have you ever, even once, loved me? Did you ever care about me at all?”
His face paled. His lips parted, but no words came out.
“That’s what I thought.” I bent down, calmly picking up the clothes he had tossed aside. I folded them neatly and placed them back into my suitcase.
“Saw the latest headlines about you and Bethany. Congratulations. You’re finally free of me. Now you can chase after your true love.”
I struggled, but his grip was ironclad, trapping me in his arms. A sharp pain shot through my lip as I tasted blood—he had bitten me. The sting jolted me back to reality, filling me with revulsion.
This wasn’t love. It was hate. Possession. Unwillingness to let go.
“Let me go!” I screamed, thrashing against him, but Rio only pressed closer. His breath was hot against my skin, thick with the stench of alcohol and Bethany’s perfume—the one she always wore.
“Drop the act,” he murmured, his grip tightening. “You spent six years trying to please me. Now, I’ll give you what you want."
A sharp pain shot through me, but the ache in my heart was far worse.
Six years. I gave him everything. And this was what I got in return.
“Rio,” I choked out, my voice hoarse, “you disgust me.”
When it was over, the room was a mess.
Rio stood at the edge of the bed, staring down at me, his face unreadable. Silence stretched between us before he finally turned away. I heard the sound of running water. Then, without a word, he returned and scooped me up.
“Let me clean you up,” he said, his voice low, devoid of emotion.
I turned my face away, refusing to meet his eyes, refusing to acknowledge his touch.
“Fuck off.”
He ignored me. I was too drained to fight him. My body was numb, my mind empty. Warm water cascaded over my skin, but it couldn’t wash away the filth, the disgust that had seeped into my bones.
“Does it hurt?” His voice was softer now, almost careful. “I’m sorry if I was too rough. I drank too much last night.”
I shut my eyes. Hurt? Nothing could hurt more than realizing my heart had died.
Memories of the man he used to be flickered through my mind like a cruel, broken film reel.
Five years ago, Rio was gentle, considerate. He used to wake up early to make me breakfast, hold me close every night before we fell asleep.
He remembered my favorite flowers, planned surprises for my birthday. When work stressed me out, he would comfort me, encourage me. When I was sick, he never left my side. Back then, I thought I had found the man I would grow old with. I gave up my rising career for him, devoted myself to being the perfect wife, managing everything for him.
