Alyssa's POV
It was our wedding anniversary, and the manager of the farmers' market had treated all the stall owners to a movie.
It was a small gesture, thoughtful even—a brief distraction from the usual grind, a break in our routine. For a moment, I thought it might be a nice night, something different.
No drama. Just a moment of peace.
But as I stood to leave, the lights dimmed in the small backroom theater, and the screen flickered to life with footage of my autistic husband, Luke Chandler.
"Regina," he said, his lip curling into that smug grin, "if I wasn't helping you train that stubborn-ass Doberman, why the hell would I fake autism and waste three years on Alyssa?"
I froze.
He smirked. "All those rules Alyssa memorized to stop my autism from acting up? They are just commands I made up for dog training. She crawls over to me like a dog, whispering, 'Are you feeling better today?' It's nauseating. If I weren't gathering data from her responses, I would've kicked her out of bed a long time ago."
The room was dead silent until Regina's voice cut through like broken glass.
"Oh, Luke," she purred, smiling like she'd just won a prize pig at the fair. "After your father passed, I've been so lucky to have you take care of me. Besides, Tank has already mastered food refusal. Honestly? It's time to dump Alyssa."
Luke's laugh died on the spot.
"What? No, I'm not divorcing her," he said, suddenly flat and cold.
A beat passed.
Then, with a soft sigh, Luke reached out and brushed a tear from Regina's cheek. "If Alyssa and I split, who's gonna cook and clean for free? Who else would come running like a dog whenever we call?"
The chair beneath me screeched as I shot to my feet, my heart hammering like it was trying to crack my ribs from the inside.
Behind me, the theater erupted in laughter.
"No wonder that woman flinches every time her husband snaps his fingers!" someone snorted.
Another voice chimed in, "She walks around like she's better than everyone. Damn, it turns out she's just a bitch after all."
Five years of marriage, and it was all a lie. It wasn’t just betrayal. It was a cruel, calculated experiment in Luke’s twisted world.
I was never his wife. I was just a test subject—a dog in his obedience trial.
The air in the alley was harsh and too bright, and as it hit my face, I stumbled outside, trying to make sense of everything. My vision blurred, and my hands shook as I fumbled for my phone.
I dialed a number I hadn't thought about in years.
The voice on the other end answered with surprise. "Alyssa! You've called?"
"Professor," I muttered, my voice barely a whisper. "I'm ready to join the sensory regulation group."
...
There was a long pause on the other end of the line.
Then, my professor asked, "Don't you need to take care of your autistic husband anymore?"
Another beat. A sigh.
He finally spoke with a sense of finality. "Forget it. I'm not getting dragged into your mess. Just glad you finally figured things out."
The next morning, I returned to my stall as if nothing had happened, restocking produce and pretending that my life hadn't just shattered. My hands moved on autopilot, sorting bundles of greens freshly harvested from my parents' garden, gathered before sunrise.
That's when Regina strolled up like she owned the place, tugging Tank along behind her. The damn dog lifted his leg and pissed all over the vegetables.
Right on cue, Regina wrinkled her nose dramatically. "These greens look sick. What, did you dig them up from a cemetery? I'm worried Tank's gonna catch something."
My heart leaped into my throat as I rushed forward and grabbed the leash.
"These were picked fresh at four this morning by my parents!" I snapped. "Regina, how could you..."
"Hey, stop that!" Luke's voice cut through the noise.
He stepped between us like a hired enforcer.
With empty eyes and a mouth in a grim line, he commanded, "You got Tank's shoes dirty. Apologize."
I blinked, stunned.
My battered, muddy, and scuffed sneakers were barely held together with hand stitching. Right next to them, Tank's paws were tucked into spotless leather boots, custom-made and probably imported.
"What—"
The kick came out of nowhere.
Luke struck me directly on my right knee—the same knee that had been shattered three years ago by a debt collector. Pain shot through me like lightning, and I collapsed onto the gravel.
My jeans ripped upon impact, and my blood mixed with the dog's urine and dirt.
And then Luke was on me, yanking my hair, forcing my face into the filth. This man, who just last night kissed me by the stove and whispered he'd always protect me, was now shoving me into the dirt like I was nothing.
"Tank isn't like you," he spat. "You can be dirty. He's purebred. He matters."
Regina barely glanced at me. Her eyes were locked on the vegetables like they were crawling with disease.
"Why are you still talking to her?" she snapped. "It's about money, right? Just throw her some cash and call it charity. This whole place is filthy. Let's go."
The other vendors jumped at the chance to please her.
"Miss Regina, you've got a heart of gold!"
"Make her eat the damn vegetables! Don't let Miss Regina see anything offensive!"
Then, three of the larger guys moved quickly.
I kicked, screamed, and fought back, but they pinned me down in the muck like a wild animal. My face hit the gravel, and someone started shoving slimy, warm vegetables into my mouth—soaked in piss and rot.
I gagged. The taste was rancid, like garbage juice and bile.
"Let me go!" I choked out. "This is assault! It's illegal!"
Behind them, Luke's voice came cool and casual. "Her weak spot's her right knee. Old injury."
I froze.
The steel rods in the vendors' hands whistled through the air, and the sound of bones cracking was unmistakably clear. But this physical pain couldn't compare to even a fraction of the agony in my heart.
The crowd slowly dispersed, leaving behind a scene of chaos.
The setting sun stretched my shadow long, like a dead dog stripped of its skin.
I knelt in the filthy, stagnant water, picking up the organic vegetables my parents had harvested before dawn. The vegetables, soaked in dog urine, rotted in my palms, much like my five-year sham marriage, trampled and shattered into pieces.
At least the $10 million in debt had been paid off. I could finally leave.
Then, my phone buzzed.
"Alyssa," came a calm, familiar voice. "Heard you're ready to come back. When's your flight?"
"Two days from now," I said. "Thank you, Nicholas."
I hung up and booked the cheapest flight to London I could find.
Forty-eight hours, and I'd be gone.
...
That night, I dragged myself home, covered in bruises, blood, and mud. I smelled like garbage water.
Luke didn't look up from the floor.
"You stink," he muttered. "I'm gonna be sick."
This man, who claimed even dust triggered his sensory issues, was now kneeling sweetly to clean Tank's paws with a damp cloth. In the past, I would've run straight to the shower, scrubbing my skin raw with steel wool, whispering 'I'm sorry' over and over until my voice gave out.
But this time? I walked right past him.
He changed his tone to soft and coaxing. It was the same voice he used on the damn dog.
"Alyssa, I was a little harsh today. But do you know how much Tank's custom shoes cost? We're still in debt…"
"That debt?" I interrupted, turning just slightly. "I've already paid for it."
Every cent.
I'd bled for it by selling produce late into the night, delivering orders in the rain, and chugging Red Bulls until my stomach lining eroded.
Moreover, my parents gave up everything. They even sold their house and RV and moved back to the countryside, farming from sunup to sundown, just to help me.
They worked over a thousand days and nights, never daring to rest.
And Luke? He faked a diagnosis and sat on the couch.
Right then, I went to our bedroom and packed my suitcase in silence.
Then came Luke's voice again—sharp, full of scorn.
"Where the hell are you going?"
