Ricky let go right away, straightened his clothes, and turned to comfort Miley.
"Miley, are you alright? Did I scare you?"
Miley held his hand with both of hers, swinging it gently as she pouted. But her eyes darted to me, full of fake innocence.
"Ricky, please don't fight. Christina isn't wrong. I drank too much and said something stupid. It's my fault she's upset. She doesn't like me, and that's fair."
She looked at me, lowering her head like she was genuinely admitting her mistake.
"I'm sorry, Christina. Please don't be mad at Ricky because of me."
But her eyes said something else entirely—cold and defiant. Even a fool could see she wasn't sincere.
Ricky, of course, didn't notice.
"Miley, this has nothing to do with you. She's just being dramatic. Go lie down if you're dizzy."
And with that, he led her into our bedroom—our bed—to rest.
I followed them in, grabbed my suitcase, and started packing.
"Christina, what's this now?!" Ricky stormed in, trying to stop me.
"I told you, I want a divorce. You and Miley can have each other. Besides, she's already making herself at home in our bed!"
Before Ricky could yell at me, we heard Miley crying from the bedroom.
"I didn't mean to! I really didn't!"
"Christina, you misunderstood. Ricky only let me rest in the master bedroom because I felt dizzy, and the guest room was messy."
"I didn't mean to upset you—it's all my fault. I'll leave now so I don't bother you anymore."
She turned and walked out dramatically. Ricky ran after her. He stood at the door for ages, coaxing her like she was a child.
"Be good, Miley. Christina's acting crazy right now. Go home first. I'll come see you tomorrow, okay?"
After seeing her in the elevator, he came back to find me ready to leave with my suitcase.
"Christina, enough!" He grabbed the suitcase from me, shouting, "Miley is just a kid! Why are you picking a fight with her?"
A kid? That bitch's 24!
I reached for the suitcase again. "I said I want a divorce! Give me my suitcase!"
But Ricky wouldn't let go. In his anger, he slammed it to the floor. The zipper burst, and my clothes spilled out everywhere.
He stared at the mess for a moment, then laughed coldly.
"Fine. You want to leave? Then leave behind everything I bought for you—including the clothes you're wearing!"
I knelt and picked out the designer clothes he'd bought me back when he cared about how I looked as his wife.
"You can't dress cheap," he used to say. "You represent me."
I started unbuttoning the shirt I was wearing to change into my old cotton T-shirt.
But Ricky stopped me. He hooked his finger around my bra strap and snapped it.
"What about this? Having second thoughts?"
I used to be pretty. Not stunning, but not bad-looking either.
I had admirers back in school. Ricky was one of them—a spoiled rich boy who only wanted to chase me for fun.
Then one night, he got mugged after showing off at a party. I was working part-time at a restaurant nearby. When I stepped out to take out the trash, I saw it happening.
Without thinking, I called the cops and threw everything I could at the mugger.
I struggled to escape, and the mugger's knife slashed across my face.
Afterward, Ricky cried as he held me, promising he'd be grateful forever. He swore he'd take care of me and treat me well.
For a while, he did. He changed and pursued me seriously.
