“Were you going to divorce me?”
He stayed silent.
I acknowledged it.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For finally being bad at lying.”
I approached the door.
He seized my wrist.
Not aggressively.
In desperation.
“Elena, don’t do this.”
I stared at his fingers.
He let go.
“You’ve already destroyed my career.”
“No. You did that on a microphone.”
“August won’t reinstate the vote while you’re against me.”
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have publicly fired someone whose support you needed.”
“You knew.”
He repeated the accusation.
“You knew what your shares meant.”
“Yes.”
“And you let me walk into that ballroom.”
I fixed my gaze on him.
That moment ended my hope for our marriage, because he still saw himself as the injured party in the harm he had arranged.
Even now, he blamed me for not stopping his cruelty toward me.
“You planned to humiliate me,” I said quietly. “And you’re angry because I didn’t warn you there would be consequences.”
