"Alex Delgado, have you lost your mind? You expect me to serve your mistress during her confinement?"
The words barely left my lips before his palm connected with my cheek. The crack echoed through the room.
Blood flooded my mouth. My face burned like it had been branded.
He gripped my jaw, fingers digging in like iron pincers. His eyes held nothing—no warmth, no remorse. "Alex Whitney is not a mistress. Understand?"
He shoved me back. I staggered, lost my footing, and slammed into the sharp corner of the table. Pain shot up my spine.
He scoffed at my grimace.
"I thought you were tough. What's a little bump?" His voice dropped to ice. "You want a divorce? Not without my signature. You will never escape me."
He loomed over me. "Three days. Pack your things and go care for Alex Whitney. Refuse, and you won't like what happens next."
He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Silence settled. In the quiet, a bitter truth crystallized. For years, I'd been the one to bow my head in every argument. I'd believed marriage meant compromise—that endurance would make it last.
I was wrong. My submission hadn't earned love. It had only emboldened him.
He ignored my feelings completely, treating me like a woman who threatened to leave but lacked the spine to follow through. The audacity—demanding I care for the woman who destroyed our marriage.
Even now, he refused to face reality, still spinning empty promises, still trying to manipulate me.
Disgusting. Greedy. Whoever wanted him could have him.
I didn't care if I left with nothing. I was divorcing him.
An hour later, I sat on a bench outside the hospital, freshly bandaged. I scrolled through my phone until I found a number I hadn't dialed in years: Nathan Henson.
We'd been inseparable in high school. But after he went abroad for law school and I started dating Delgado, we drifted apart. To keep Delgado from getting jealous, I'd cut off contact entirely after the wedding.
Ten years. Gone in a blink.
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the call button. Finally, I pressed it.
"Alex? Is that you?"
His voice made my chest tighten. "Mm," I managed.
He still had my number. After all this time.
When I didn't speak, he chuckled nervously. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Don't tell me you're in trouble."
Same old Nathan. Still using humor to break tension.
"I... I need your help with something."
The words came out halting, reluctant. But I forced them through.
"Name it," he said instantly. "Where are you? I'm back in Riverdale. I'll come find you."
"I'm not in Riverdale. I'm in Seaside City."
"Seaside City." A pause. His tone shifted from surprised to focused. "Send me your location. I'm coming. Now."
Before I could protest, the line went dead.
Two hours later, the shop bell chimed. A tall, familiar figure stepped inside—Nathan Henson.
When his eyes found me, he rubbed the back of his neck, looking almost bashful.
"Hearing your voice... I couldn't just sit there." He shrugged. "Got a little excited."
"It's been so long. Figured I'd treat you to a meal."
His shy expression pulled a laugh out of me. It was only later I learned how he'd arrived so fast: private jet.
We caught up briefly, bridging the decade between us, before I laid everything out. All of it.
When I finished, Nathan shot up from his chair, face dark with rage.
"That animal." His fists clenched. "If that bastard were standing here right now, I'd kill him."
He rolled up his sleeves like he was ready to brawl. A genuine snort escaped me—my first real laugh in ages.
He thumped his chest, eyes locking onto mine.
"Leave it to me. I'll handle the lawsuit." His voice hardened with conviction. "We're going to destroy him."
