Slapped on Our Anniversary - Chapter 4: Chapter 4
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After swallowing some painkillers, I headed home to pack.
In that massive mansion, my entire life fit into one small suitcase. Every piece of clothing inside was from when I first arrived—not a single new item in seven years, all faded like my sickly complexion.
The irony? The place had ten housekeepers.
Yet I, the legal wife, worked myself to the bone without a moment's rest.
Because Ethan couldn't stand seeing me idle, couldn't bear the thought of me finding even a sliver of happiness.
"Phew—"
I exhaled sharply, gripping the battered suitcase tighter as I quickened my pace toward the door.
Freedom was finally within reach.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?"
Ethan's voice cut through the courtyard like a knife. "The pity act didn't work, so now you're pulling the runaway stunt?"
My steps faltered as he blocked my path. That familiar suffocating feeling returned, but I couldn't muster the energy to engage. I sidestepped—
—only for him to seize my arm.
"Don't touch me!"
I wrenched free, whirling to face him. "I've paid my debt. You don't get to lay a finger on me ever again."
"Heh." His laugh was ice. "Rachel Wilson, I've seen this 'strategic retreat' move a hundred times in boardrooms. You really think I'm still that gullible kid?"
Seven years of hearing variations of this accusation, yet the words still carved fresh wounds. My throat tightened around the bitterness.
"Fine. Drop the act." He pulled a wad of bills from his bag, scattering them at my feet like charity for a beggar. "Pick these up, say 'thank you, husband,' and maybe I'll toss you a few more grand."
Staring into the eyes of the man I'd shared a bed with for seven years—now brimming with undisguised contempt—I expected pain. Instead, I felt nothing.
This, I realized, was what a dead heart felt like.
Meeting his gaze, I finally voiced the question that had haunted me: "Ethan Evans, if I married you for money, why stay seven hopeless years? Why not find another rich man while I was still young?"
My voice didn't waver. "Believe it or not, what I felt for you was real."
Once.
The words lifted an invisible weight from my chest. I turned before he could respond.
"Rachel! If not money, then what?" His shout chased me. "You left when I was broke and came back at my IPO. That's your idea of 'real feelings'?"
I didn't look back.
Then he was on me—yanking my hair, slamming me to the ground. "ANSWER ME!"
His rage burned red, but I was past caring. Pain wracked my body uncontrollably now, teeth chattering against the tremors.
"Get up! Stop faking!"
When my ashen face and drenched forehead betrayed the truth, his tone shifted to panic. "Okay—okay, you win. Rachel, we'll talk, just let me—"
"GET OFF!"
I shoved him away, crawling toward my suitcase like a wounded animal desperate for escape.
The cheap plastic cracked open during the struggle, spilling its contents—including the medical report Ethan immediately snatched.
Two seconds of silence.
Then his voice, raw with something I'd never heard before: fear.
"Rachel... this cancer diagnosis—"
His hands shook. "If it's real, why didn't you tell me?"
In that massive mansion, my entire life fit into one small suitcase. Every piece of clothing inside was from when I first arrived—not a single new item in seven years, all faded like my sickly complexion.
The irony? The place had ten housekeepers.
Yet I, the legal wife, worked myself to the bone without a moment's rest.
Because Ethan couldn't stand seeing me idle, couldn't bear the thought of me finding even a sliver of happiness.
"Phew—"
I exhaled sharply, gripping the battered suitcase tighter as I quickened my pace toward the door.
Freedom was finally within reach.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?"
Ethan's voice cut through the courtyard like a knife. "The pity act didn't work, so now you're pulling the runaway stunt?"
My steps faltered as he blocked my path. That familiar suffocating feeling returned, but I couldn't muster the energy to engage. I sidestepped—
—only for him to seize my arm.
"Don't touch me!"
I wrenched free, whirling to face him. "I've paid my debt. You don't get to lay a finger on me ever again."
"Heh." His laugh was ice. "Rachel Wilson, I've seen this 'strategic retreat' move a hundred times in boardrooms. You really think I'm still that gullible kid?"
Seven years of hearing variations of this accusation, yet the words still carved fresh wounds. My throat tightened around the bitterness.
"Fine. Drop the act." He pulled a wad of bills from his bag, scattering them at my feet like charity for a beggar. "Pick these up, say 'thank you, husband,' and maybe I'll toss you a few more grand."
Staring into the eyes of the man I'd shared a bed with for seven years—now brimming with undisguised contempt—I expected pain. Instead, I felt nothing.
This, I realized, was what a dead heart felt like.
Meeting his gaze, I finally voiced the question that had haunted me: "Ethan Evans, if I married you for money, why stay seven hopeless years? Why not find another rich man while I was still young?"
My voice didn't waver. "Believe it or not, what I felt for you was real."
Once.
The words lifted an invisible weight from my chest. I turned before he could respond.
"Rachel! If not money, then what?" His shout chased me. "You left when I was broke and came back at my IPO. That's your idea of 'real feelings'?"
I didn't look back.
Then he was on me—yanking my hair, slamming me to the ground. "ANSWER ME!"
His rage burned red, but I was past caring. Pain wracked my body uncontrollably now, teeth chattering against the tremors.
"Get up! Stop faking!"
When my ashen face and drenched forehead betrayed the truth, his tone shifted to panic. "Okay—okay, you win. Rachel, we'll talk, just let me—"
"GET OFF!"
I shoved him away, crawling toward my suitcase like a wounded animal desperate for escape.
The cheap plastic cracked open during the struggle, spilling its contents—including the medical report Ethan immediately snatched.
Two seconds of silence.
Then his voice, raw with something I'd never heard before: fear.
"Rachel... this cancer diagnosis—"
His hands shook. "If it's real, why didn't you tell me?"
End of Slapped on Our Anniversary Chapter 4. Continue reading Chapter 5 or return to Slapped on Our Anniversary book page.