Chapter 2The Husband Who Was The Mistress

The disdain in her voice acted like a trigger. I shoved the tissue away, my voice cracking.

“Don’t touch me. We’re done, Monica. I want a divorce.”

My vision swam with black spots. I scrambled toward the nightstand to find my medication, but my hands were shaking so violently that the bottle shattered against the floor, spilling pills everywhere.

Monica chuckled, picking up a single pill and rolling it between her fingers.

“Divorce?” she asked, her voice mocking. “Logan, look at yourself. You’re a wreck. Without me, without my family’s influence, you wouldn't last a week in this city. You’d be back in the gutter where I found you.”

Her eyes began to blur as my consciousness flickered. As I slipped into the dark, memories flashed like a frantic montage.

The years of heavy medication just to keep my heart beating. The relatives who vanished the moment the money did. The funeral where no one showed up except for them.

Monica, the spoiled rich girl who didn't know how to boil water, had spent months learning to cook just to make sure I ate. When the medication made my hair fall out in clumps, she didn't hesitate—she cut her own long, beautiful hair off to match me.

And the last time I tried to end it all... when I stood on that window ledge... she had climbed out right next to me.

“If you jump, Logan, I’m right behind you. I don't want a world without you.”

The sweetness of the past felt like poison in my veins. The image shifted—distorted. I saw them together, laughing at me.

I bolted upright in a hospital bed, gasping for air.

A muffled, rhythmic sound came from behind the thin curtain of the room's partition. Groans. Whispers.

I froze. I wasn't dreaming.

I forced myself out of bed, my legs like lead. I stood outside the heavy door of the private suite's sitting area. The sounds from inside made the bile rise in my throat again.

I pushed the door open and vomited right there on the polished floor.

The room went silent. Dexter, fully dressed but with his shirt tucked in haphazardly, rushed over to help me.

I looked up at him, my eyes bloodshot and stinging. I saw the marks on his neck, then looked past him at Monica, who was adjusting her skirt with a look of pure guilt.

I swung. My fist connected with Dexter's jaw, fueled by years of misplaced gratitude.

“How could you?” I screamed. “You’re supposed to be my brother!”

Before I could land another blow, I was shoved hard. I hit the floor, the world spinning.

Monica was standing over Dexter, shielding him, her face contorted with rage. “What is wrong with you, Logan? Are you insane?”

She frantically checked Dexter's face for bruises. Dexter looked at me, then at her, his expression shifting to one of feigned regret.

“Mo... you told him? I told you not to tell him.” He turned to me, his voice smooth and manipulative. “Logan, look, it was an accident. Just let me explain.”