Chapter 3
The day I was discharged from the hospital, Blake Morgan pulled a move out of character—posting a photo collage on Instagram. It was a montage of wedding photos with Amaya George, captioned: "The lady insists I owe her a proper ceremony."
I scrutinized his handsome face in the pictures, noting how gracefully he'd aged at thirty-five, with time barely leaving a trace. The comments were filled with friends showering them with congratulations. I hit 'like' and commented: "Quite the pair. Make it official already."
Almost immediately, Blake called. Seeing the caller ID labeled as "husband," I let it go unanswered. Instead, I blocked and deleted the contact.
In under thirty minutes, Blake cornered me at the hospital entrance. Without a word, he pulled me into his car. Struggling to get free, I found myself trapped between the car door and his chest.
In the confines of the vehicle, he locked lips with me, dominating and stealing my breath. My legs turned to jelly as I instinctively leaned into his chest. Then the thought of him kissing Amaya George with those very lips hit me, and a wave of nausea rose.
Gathering my resolve, I bit down hard, and the metallic taste of blood filled the space between us. Blake flinched, pulling back, while I gasped for air. He smirked, amused at my reaction. "Jealous? Upset I took Amaya out without you?" he teased, gently pinching my cheek and making sweet promises.
But I just stared back, my eyes reddening. It was always like this—he'd show up with playful smiles right when I was about to break.
I slapped his hand away and met his gaze silently. "What is it this time?" I asked, my voice devoid of emotion.
It seemed this was harder for him to explain; he hesitated before speaking. "Sweetheart, Amaya's place got flooded. I let her stay at our house for a few days," he said, holding my hand with a pleading look.
Hearing his words, I remained indifferent. Blake knew how much that house meant to me. After my parents passed away, it became my safe haven, the place where I found solace. He couldn’t bring himself to leave me, so it became our home.
And now he tells me he let another woman stay there, without my knowledge, while I was hospitalized.
"Let her stay," I said calmly.
My indifferent expression seemed to unnerve Blake, but he reassured himself that I was simply too tired to care. Yes, that must be it.
The drive home was silent. He tried to start a conversation several times, but I pretended to sleep, avoiding it all. Eventually, thinking I truly had fallen asleep, he shamelessly called Amaya. Their conversation was vulgar, the kind you'd rather not hear.
When we finally reached home, I crouched by the roadside, retching. Blake assumed I was car sick and offered a few comforting words before heading inside to find Amaya.
My heart felt submerged in cold despair.
Amaya George! It was always about her!
I crouched there in humiliation, waiting for the waves of nausea from my pregnancy to subside.
As I entered the garden, I noticed the drastic changes. The rose bushes I had planted were gone, replaced by a sleek, modern swimming pool. The small gazebo my parents had built for me had vanished.
My quaint, cozy garden had been transformed into a contemporary, luxurious space to fit Amaya George's taste.
Seeing the complete overhaul, I momentarily forgot to breathe, feeling the blood rush to my head.
Blake returned to the car to fetch something and caught me standing there, frozen. Casually, he said, "Amaya's allergic to pollen, so I had the flowers removed. We’ve seen them for over a decade anyway."
My hands trembled as I pointed at him, seething, "Why should my home cater to her! Get out! Take that woman and leave with you!"
Riled by my reaction, Blake turned back into the house, carrying Amaya out and pushing her into the car. As he passed me, he shot me a sideways glance and said, "Don't regret this. Even if you beg later, I won't come back!"
I collapsed to the ground, powerless.
Never again, I vowed to myself. Never again would I let him humiliate me like this.
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