Husband Dead, Millions in Hand...But Wait—He'd Loved Me a Decade! - Chapter 3: Chapter 3
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He was so damn cocky.
Figured if I could take a punch, I'd be easy to overpower.
When he yanked at my pants, I destroyed his little 'member' with one brutal shot.
I sprinted to the cops, pressed charges. Three years behind bars for him.
But my reputation? Trashed.
Kicked out of the club. Dad's booze money dried up, so I became his personal punching bag.
"You're a whore—just like your mother!"
According to him, my curves were an invitation.
I was "jail-bait" seducing married men. A shameless slut.
When your own father puts that label on you, the whole world buys it.
They spit at me. Beat me. Ran me out of town.
No education. No skills. Body mapped with ugly scars.
Nobody would hire me.
Nightclub bouncer became my only option.
I thought distance and time would bury all the ugliness.
Then this coworker came at me with hearts and flowers—promised the white picket fence fantasy, the whole "till death do us part" package.
I rolled the dice on him being real. Handed him every penny I'd scraped together.
But he ditched me... disappeared with his actual girlfriend.
I overheard him tell her:
"God, that muscle-freak with the janky face? Disgusting how she fell for me. Wouldn't have bothered scamming her if she didn't have cash!"
Reality check again: nobody wants my love.
Not my father. Not my coworker. And definitely not James.
I hate the word "Like"!
SMACK!
I smashed my glass against the wall.
Mr. Muscles turned ghost-white.
"Boring," I slurred, stumbling out to catch a cab.
First thing at home—shower off the nightclub cocktail of smoke and booze.
James always lectured about that stuff.
Such an old soul, always gently correcting my bad habits.
Suddenly realized I'd completely forgotten to bring clean clothes.
Without thinking, I yelled out:
"James! Throw me some PJs!"
Silence.
My hand froze mid-scrub.
Right. He's gone.
First time I came home wasted after we married, I was a disaster—vomit everywhere. James cleaned me up himself.
When I realized what was happening, I panicked and hugged myself tight.
"James...they're ugly, right?"
I knew how repulsive my scars were. Even I couldn't stand looking at them.
But he just traced the slash mark on my forehead, then pulled me close, washing and drying me with this impossibly gentle touch.
"Your body isn't something to grade or judge, Liv."
I stared at him, confused.
"It's yours—to feel sunshine, enjoy movement, taste good food.Don't measure yourself through someone else's eyes."
Nobody had ever talked to me like that before.
Nobody had ever looked at my battle-scarred skin without flinching.
Something short-circuited in my brain.
I kissed him—quick and light as a butterfly.
For James though? Major error message.
For the first time, that calm face showed irritation, discomfort, and something else I couldn't read.
The warmth in my chest turned to ice.
I'd forgotten the fundamental truth: James didn't want my love.
He was just so fundamentally decent that I kept falling into the trap of thinking otherwise.
What a fool I was!
I played it off like an accident, cracking a joke instead.
"Damn slippery tub! Nearly broke my teeth. You owe me hazard pay!"
James just nodded, ever patient.
"Whatever works for you."
Figured if I could take a punch, I'd be easy to overpower.
When he yanked at my pants, I destroyed his little 'member' with one brutal shot.
I sprinted to the cops, pressed charges. Three years behind bars for him.
But my reputation? Trashed.
Kicked out of the club. Dad's booze money dried up, so I became his personal punching bag.
"You're a whore—just like your mother!"
According to him, my curves were an invitation.
I was "jail-bait" seducing married men. A shameless slut.
When your own father puts that label on you, the whole world buys it.
They spit at me. Beat me. Ran me out of town.
No education. No skills. Body mapped with ugly scars.
Nobody would hire me.
Nightclub bouncer became my only option.
I thought distance and time would bury all the ugliness.
Then this coworker came at me with hearts and flowers—promised the white picket fence fantasy, the whole "till death do us part" package.
I rolled the dice on him being real. Handed him every penny I'd scraped together.
But he ditched me... disappeared with his actual girlfriend.
I overheard him tell her:
"God, that muscle-freak with the janky face? Disgusting how she fell for me. Wouldn't have bothered scamming her if she didn't have cash!"
Reality check again: nobody wants my love.
Not my father. Not my coworker. And definitely not James.
I hate the word "Like"!
SMACK!
I smashed my glass against the wall.
Mr. Muscles turned ghost-white.
"Boring," I slurred, stumbling out to catch a cab.
First thing at home—shower off the nightclub cocktail of smoke and booze.
James always lectured about that stuff.
Such an old soul, always gently correcting my bad habits.
Suddenly realized I'd completely forgotten to bring clean clothes.
Without thinking, I yelled out:
"James! Throw me some PJs!"
Silence.
My hand froze mid-scrub.
Right. He's gone.
First time I came home wasted after we married, I was a disaster—vomit everywhere. James cleaned me up himself.
When I realized what was happening, I panicked and hugged myself tight.
"James...they're ugly, right?"
I knew how repulsive my scars were. Even I couldn't stand looking at them.
But he just traced the slash mark on my forehead, then pulled me close, washing and drying me with this impossibly gentle touch.
"Your body isn't something to grade or judge, Liv."
I stared at him, confused.
"It's yours—to feel sunshine, enjoy movement, taste good food.Don't measure yourself through someone else's eyes."
Nobody had ever talked to me like that before.
Nobody had ever looked at my battle-scarred skin without flinching.
Something short-circuited in my brain.
I kissed him—quick and light as a butterfly.
For James though? Major error message.
For the first time, that calm face showed irritation, discomfort, and something else I couldn't read.
The warmth in my chest turned to ice.
I'd forgotten the fundamental truth: James didn't want my love.
He was just so fundamentally decent that I kept falling into the trap of thinking otherwise.
What a fool I was!
I played it off like an accident, cracking a joke instead.
"Damn slippery tub! Nearly broke my teeth. You owe me hazard pay!"
James just nodded, ever patient.
"Whatever works for you."
End of Husband Dead, Millions in Hand...But Wait—He'd Loved Me a Decade! Chapter 3. Continue reading Chapter 4 or return to Husband Dead, Millions in Hand...But Wait—He'd Loved Me a Decade! book page.