he Day He Chose Her Over Our Dying Son, I Chose Vengeance - Chapter 38: Chapter 38
You are reading he Day He Chose Her Over Our Dying Son, I Chose Vengeance, Chapter 38: Chapter 38. Read more chapters of he Day He Chose Her Over Our Dying Son, I Chose Vengeance.
Too fucking late. Just more bullshit to make himself feel better.
Three days later, cops nailed Sophia for "distributing porn."
While tossing her place, they hit the jackpot—evidence everywhere.
Including texts proving she set up that gang attack on me years back.
Sophia's ass was gonna rot in prison till she died.
I watched Blake still kneeling outside like a dumbass. Time to end this shit.
"Want to come in? Guess we should talk."
Blake's head snapped up, his eyes lit with hope like a desperate puppy.
Finally, he nodded and stepped inside.
My tiny cottage felt suffocating with Blake's six-foot-whatever frame taking up all the oxygen.
"Sit. Getting water."
I was filling a glass when it hit me. I dropped the damn pitcher and sprinted to the living room.
Shit. Too late.
Blake was sitting at the edge of my couch, nose buried in my journal.
He was so zoned in on my private thoughts he didn't even notice me storming in.
I lunged over and ripped the journal from his hands.
He looked up slowly, and fuck—I'd never seen Blake like this.
Like someone had beaten the cockiness right out of him, leaving nothing but raw pain.
"You get nightmares every night?"
"You can't sleep at all?"
"You're on depression meds?"
His voice was wrecked, fingers tracing over wrinkled pages.
Pages stained and warped from crying my eyes out.
I froze up, suddenly losing the guts to walk over.
That journal had all my rock-bottom moments.
The stabbing pain after losing the baby.
The fucking downpour at Mom's funeral.
And All those nights I popped pills just to get a few hours of peace.
"When did it start?"
I tried grabbing the journal back, but Blake jumped up. It fell, pages fluttering open, showing line after line of my messy handwriting.
He stepped toward me. I backed up on instinct until I hit the wall.
"Three sleeping pills for three hours? Doctors say ONE max! Jesus, how bad is it?"
"What the hell did you expect? Who do you think did this to me?"
Blake looked like I'd gut-punched him. All color drained from his face.
He bent down to pick up my journal, handling it like it was made of glass.
When he saw the newest entry, he went completely still.
I knew exactly what was on that page.
Last night's 3 AM breakdown.
"Dreamed of Blake choking me again. Pillow soaked when I woke up. Wish I'd never fucking met him."
"Some guy at the B&B looked like him from behind. Hid in the storage room shaking for hours. What do I do? How do I forget all the shit he put me through?"
"I just want to move on, but why is he back? My therapist said I was getting better. I was almost there."
Every word cutting Blake deeper than the last.
"I'm so sorry."
Blake said it so quietly it was almost nothing.
He placed the journal back in the drawer with care.
I bit my lip hard enough to hurt.
In three years of marriage, that was the first "sorry" I'd ever heard from him.
"I'm out of here tomorrow morning."
"Because I love you, I won't hurt you anymore."
The door shut quietly, but in my head it was a fucking explosion.
I crouched down and grabbed a torn scrap of paper from the floor.
A corner with Blake's handwriting, hastily crossed out:
"If I could do it over, I'd never have met you. Then you wouldn't have—"
I turned and tossed that shit in the trash where it belonged.
Three days later, cops nailed Sophia for "distributing porn."
While tossing her place, they hit the jackpot—evidence everywhere.
Including texts proving she set up that gang attack on me years back.
Sophia's ass was gonna rot in prison till she died.
I watched Blake still kneeling outside like a dumbass. Time to end this shit.
"Want to come in? Guess we should talk."
Blake's head snapped up, his eyes lit with hope like a desperate puppy.
Finally, he nodded and stepped inside.
My tiny cottage felt suffocating with Blake's six-foot-whatever frame taking up all the oxygen.
"Sit. Getting water."
I was filling a glass when it hit me. I dropped the damn pitcher and sprinted to the living room.
Shit. Too late.
Blake was sitting at the edge of my couch, nose buried in my journal.
He was so zoned in on my private thoughts he didn't even notice me storming in.
I lunged over and ripped the journal from his hands.
He looked up slowly, and fuck—I'd never seen Blake like this.
Like someone had beaten the cockiness right out of him, leaving nothing but raw pain.
"You get nightmares every night?"
"You can't sleep at all?"
"You're on depression meds?"
His voice was wrecked, fingers tracing over wrinkled pages.
Pages stained and warped from crying my eyes out.
I froze up, suddenly losing the guts to walk over.
That journal had all my rock-bottom moments.
The stabbing pain after losing the baby.
The fucking downpour at Mom's funeral.
And All those nights I popped pills just to get a few hours of peace.
"When did it start?"
I tried grabbing the journal back, but Blake jumped up. It fell, pages fluttering open, showing line after line of my messy handwriting.
He stepped toward me. I backed up on instinct until I hit the wall.
"Three sleeping pills for three hours? Doctors say ONE max! Jesus, how bad is it?"
"What the hell did you expect? Who do you think did this to me?"
Blake looked like I'd gut-punched him. All color drained from his face.
He bent down to pick up my journal, handling it like it was made of glass.
When he saw the newest entry, he went completely still.
I knew exactly what was on that page.
Last night's 3 AM breakdown.
"Dreamed of Blake choking me again. Pillow soaked when I woke up. Wish I'd never fucking met him."
"Some guy at the B&B looked like him from behind. Hid in the storage room shaking for hours. What do I do? How do I forget all the shit he put me through?"
"I just want to move on, but why is he back? My therapist said I was getting better. I was almost there."
Every word cutting Blake deeper than the last.
"I'm so sorry."
Blake said it so quietly it was almost nothing.
He placed the journal back in the drawer with care.
I bit my lip hard enough to hurt.
In three years of marriage, that was the first "sorry" I'd ever heard from him.
"I'm out of here tomorrow morning."
"Because I love you, I won't hurt you anymore."
The door shut quietly, but in my head it was a fucking explosion.
I crouched down and grabbed a torn scrap of paper from the floor.
A corner with Blake's handwriting, hastily crossed out:
"If I could do it over, I'd never have met you. Then you wouldn't have—"
I turned and tossed that shit in the trash where it belonged.
End of he Day He Chose Her Over Our Dying Son, I Chose Vengeance Chapter 38. Continue reading Chapter 39 or return to he Day He Chose Her Over Our Dying Son, I Chose Vengeance book page.