My hand fell back to my side, slow and steady, as I locked eyes with Shanice.
Cold. Calm. Dead serious.
"Shanice," I said, voice sharp as glass, "as long as I'm still Wesley's wife, you'll always be the shameless mistress. What right do you have to humiliate me?"
Before she could even blink, Wesley came charging across the room like he feared she'd break in half. He wrapped himself around her like some knight in shining armor, though he'd long since lost the right to wear that title.
Then he turned to me, his face tight, furious. His eyes burned straight through me.
"You hit her?" he demanded.
"Yes—"
Wesley's palm cracked against my cheek so hard it rang through the room.
His gaze locked on me, his tone icy. "That slap is a warning. Don't ever lay a hand on what's mine."
He moved closer and said, his voice low and filled with rage. "Jean, did you really follow us here just to pitch a fit in public?"
Tears blurred my vision, but I didn't let them fall.
I kept my chin high as I replied, 'My family didn’t raise me to flaunt an affair like it’s something to be proud of. If she means that much to you, then sign the divorce papers, Wesley. You can’t expect Shanice to stay your sidepiece forever, can you?
He believed I was attempting to threaten him. His lips curled into a cold smile.
"Divorce?" he echoed, mockery dripping from every syllable. "You really think anyone would want you if you left me? Six years ago, your wannabe-rich father handed you to me like a bargain deal. You belong to the Petersons whether you're breathing or in a grave, Jean."
I let out a bitter laugh that tasted like acid.
"No, Wesley. I'm not my family's ghost, and I'm not yours either. Even if I die, I'll still be my ghost. Just Jean's."
For a split second, something flickered in his eyes. His gaze faltered when he saw the tears trembling on my lashes.
His voice softened slightly. "Alright. That's enough. Quit making a scene. We'll talk about this at home."
"There's nothing to talk about," I said, steadier now, more sure of myself than ever. "Wesley, I want a divorce, and I mean it."
I stood up, reached into my bag, and pulled out the divorce papers I'd drafted. I handed them to him without blinking.
Wesley's eyes skimmed the pages, and his irritation surged.
It was all over his face.
"All this because the gifts I sent your father weren't up to par?" he snapped. "Fine. I'll give you a black card. Buy whatever you want. Will that shut you up?"
I almost laughed. 'This man still didn't get it. He thought this was about money? About gifts?'
If I'd ever cared about things like that, I never would've walked into this marriage empty-handed.
Maybe he never understood that I had loved him for eighteen years.
When I was brought back to the Garnett family as their illegitimate daughter, and when Callum pushed me into the pool and held me under until I was choking and my eyes rolled back from panic, it was Wesley who jumped in to save me.
It was Wesley who confronted Callum and said, "She's just a girl. A man should be kind to girls, not torment them."
At that moment, his warm smile had lit a fire in my heart.
Thanks to him, life in Garnett Manor wasn't completely unbearable. I invested everything in him and devoted my whole youth to our relationship. I folded nine hundred ninety-nine paper cranes in his honor and gave them to Shanice as a misguided gesture of devotion. I ran errands for him, delivered medicine, and brought breakfast for her.
Like a little thief in the dark, I watched them smile at each other, all while I loved him in silence.
Even though I knew his heart was always hers.
Even though he never once told me he liked me.
Even then, I had no regrets.
When he nearly died saving her, I was the one who held him, the one who stayed by his side and swore I'd never leave.
When he had given me a withered rose with a bleak expression and simply said, "Marry me," I didn't hesitate.
I nodded, desperate and willing, ignoring all reason and dignity, because I loved him.
But now…
"No, Wesley. I'm tired. Really tired."
I turned to leave.
But I didn't even reach the door before someone stormed in, grabbed my arm, and yanked me backward.
"Jean," the voice snapped, laced with disdain, "look at you. Since when were you bold enough to demand a divorce from Wesley?"
I knew that voice. I didn't even need to look.
It was Callum.
My big brother. My handler. My chain.
He didn't ask questions and didn't care what had happened. He just dragged me forward and tossed me like trash at Wesley's feet.
