There it was.
The accusation I had spent years trying to avoid.
And the irony almost made me laugh.
He had no idea.
He thought I had nothing.
And he hated me anyway for refusing to behave like I was beneath him.
When I reached for the door, he blocked me again.
“Apologize.”
“To whom?”
“My mother.”
“For what?”
“For being disrespectful.”
I looked at Lorraine.
She seemed almost pleased.
I looked at Derek.
He suddenly found the floor fascinating.
Then I looked back at my husband.
“No.”
The slap came so fast I didn’t see his arm move.
My head snapped sideways.
For a few seconds, all I heard was a high ringing sound.
My cheek burned.
My lip caught against my teeth.
When I touched it, my fingers came away red.
Owen’s expression changed immediately.
Not into remorse.
Into fear.
Not fear that he had hurt me.
Fear that I might do something about it.
Lorraine broke the silence.
“Maybe now she’ll understand.”
That was the moment my marriage ended.
Not legally.
That would come later.
But inside me, it was over.
I walked to the closet and pulled out my carry-on suitcase.
Owen scoffed.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
“At midnight?”
“Yes.”
“Stop being dramatic.”
I folded two dresses into the bag.
“You hit me.”
“You pushed me into it.”
I stopped.
Slowly turned around.
He actually believed that sentence.
Lorraine nodded behind him.
“You kept provoking him.”
I zipped my suitcase.
Owen grabbed the handle.
“You’re not leaving.”
I looked at his hand.
“Take your hand off my bag.”
“Or what?”
For the first time that night, I smiled.
It wasn’t a happy smile.
It was the smile I usually wore before hostile acquisitions.
“Owen, you have absolutely no idea what happens next.”
He laughed.
“You make fifty grand a year and have twelve hundred dollars worth of furniture. Stop pretending you’re dangerous.”
I pulled the suitcase from his grip.
Downstairs, his father, Raymond, was asleep in a recliner with the television on.
Nobody stopped me as I walked outside in my wedding dress carrying a suitcase.
Owen followed me onto the porch.
“You’re seriously calling a rideshare?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“That apartment is barely eight hundred square feet.”
“Not that home.”
He frowned.
My driver arrived seven minutes later.
Before getting inside, I removed my wedding ring.
Owen watched me hold it between two fingers.
His expression finally faltered.
“Cass, don’t do something stupid.”
I set the ring on the brick ledge beside him.
“You already did.”
Then I left.
The house Owen had never seen
My driver didn’t take me to the apartment.
He took me forty minutes north to a gated property overlooking the Chattahoochee River.
The guard recognized me immediately.
“Ms. Monroe?”
“I’m fine, Daniel.”
He noticed my split lip.
His expression said he did not believe me.
But he opened the gate.
At 1:18 in the morning, I walked into a home Owen never knew existed.
Five bedrooms.
Glass walls facing the river.
A private office occupying most of the second floor.
And inside that office sat the real version of the woman he thought he had married.
I changed out of my wedding dress.
Photographed my injuries.
Called my physician.
