The Way Out He Never Saw Coming - Chapter 8: Chapter 8

A wave of nausea hit me as I took in Leon's figure blocking the doorway. His familiar scent—something I'd once tolerated—now clung to the air like cheap cologne, thick and suffocating. He used to joke about my "bloodhound nose," teasing how I could detect the faintest whiff of perfume from across the room. But now that sensitivity felt like a curse, making his presence feel like a greasy film coating my skin. I suppressed a shudder, focusing on my singular goal: ending this for good.
Then it came to me—the memory of Oliver's car, that subtle hint of fresh linen and something floral. I glanced back to find Oliver watching the scene with quiet amusement, his calm demeanor only heightening my disgust for Leon's pathetic display. The contrast between Oliver's steady strength and Leon's desperate arrogance was night and day. Squaring my shoulders, I met Leon's gaze head-on, my voice steady as steel.
"Leon, I am married. We ended years ago—the moment you booked that hotel room, maybe even before. Seven years means nothing now. Let's walk away with some dignity before we both regret this." I gestured around us. "This is my husband's home. Just go."
Leon's face turned beet red, veins bulging at his temples. Before I could react, his hands shot out to grab me, his grip rough and desperate. "You're mine, Emily!" he spat, alcohol and rage thick on his breath. "Where's this so-called husband? I'll drag you home myself and remind you who—"
A sudden blur of movement cut him off. One second Leon was in my face, the next he was stumbling backward like a drunk after last call. I whirled around to see Oliver standing protectively beside me, his usually warm eyes now glacial. "I'm her husband," he stated, voice dangerously quiet.
The faint scent of whiskey clung to Oliver, his shirt still slightly undone from our earlier intimacy. The sight sent heat rushing to my cheeks, but more than that—it filled me with bone-deep safety. Even Leon seemed to sense the shift, bracing himself against the wall like a boxer after a knockout punch.
Leon wiped his mouth with a sneer. "So this is your game, Emily? Using my hard-earned money to keep some—"
Oliver's fist clenched so tight I heard his knuckles crack. I quickly placed a hand on his arm—this wasn't his fight. Turning to Leon, I let seven years of resentment sharpen my words: "Your salary? The one that barely covers your bar tabs? I pay your rent, Leon. Those designer shoes? Me. That Rolex knockoff? Still me." Each word landed like a slap. "You don't get to play the victim here."
Leon's face twisted like I'd gutted him. Before he could respond, Oliver moved like lightning, slamming him against the wall with a thud that shook the hallway. Blood trickled from Leon's lip as Oliver growled, "Emily is my wife. Walk away now, or next time you'll crawl out of Greenwoods."
Leon wiped his bloody mouth, eyes burning with hate. "This isn't over," he spat, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him as he limped into the night.
The slam of the door echoed like a gunshot. My hands shook, but for the first time in years, I felt free. Turning to Oliver, I bit my lip. "Sorry about... all that," I murmured, suddenly self-conscious.
The corner of Oliver's mouth quirked as he pulled me close. "Nothing to apologize for," he said, his thumb brushing my cheek. "Except maybe almost stealing my punch." The teasing note in his voice made my breath catch—this was the man who'd fought for me, who'd chosen me. And as his lips found mine, I knew Leon was already fading to a bad memory.