He Regrets After The Countdown To Our Divorce

Melissa's POV

"Honey, do you like how my outfit looks for the signing?"

It was a gentle question, more like a soft attempt at getting his attention, a small moment of warmth that I should've known better than to expect.

What I got in return was a hot, undiluted slap that stung my skin and echoed through the room and I'm turn sent ripples down my spine. My head snapped to the side and abruptly my breath caught somewhere between shock and resignation. This was my husband - or rather, the man who wore the title like a crown but treated me like an unpaid servant.

I pressed my palm to my cheek, feeling the sting spread. His eyes burned with the same disgust I'd seen too many times to count.

"Don't act coy with me," Tony sneered, his voice sharp enough to slice through the whole room. "Just because you tricked my mother into marrying me doesn't mean I'll allow trash like you to carry my child."

His words landed harder than his hand. My lips parted, but no sound came out. As I wouldn't dare to talk back to him.

But then, who was even thinking about carrying his child? I thought bitterly. If anything, I would rather sign to carry the child of a mentally deranged stranger than have his. The thought made me almost laugh - not because it was funny, but because that's what pain does when it has nowhere else to go.

If not for my sister's condition three years ago - if not for her needing surgery we couldn't afford, then  I would never have agreed to this contract marriage. Never!

Three years. Three years of swallowing pain like breakfast. Three years of silence, of long sleeves hiding bruises, of faking smiles so people wouldn't ask questions. I'd learned how to hide the evidence well. Makeup on the neck and concealer over the cheekbones. Sleeves that covered my wrists no matter the weather.

If one gets used to things they never wished for, then I suppose I had gotten used to this one - to the sharp words, to the cold nights, to being invisible in my own home.

Sometimes, I'd lie awake wondering if I had forgotten what genuine peace even felt like. I used to hope he'd change. That maybe one morning, he'd look at me and see a person instead of a burden. I'd give him "one last chance" over and over again, like a fool clutching at smoke. But the truth has a way of showing itself - Tony Morgan would never change. And I finally understood that he didn't deserve my love, not even the smallest piece of it.

As I stood there, still clutching my cheek, a familiar voice broke through the tension.

"How long will you continue to treat your wife like that?"

It was Mrs. Morgan - Tony's mother - the only person in this family who ever looked at me like I was human.