Too Late For Apologies, Andrew

Huo Wuer

Romance | Completed

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My husband, Andrew, a promising politician, asked me for a divorce for the eighth time. It was always the same drill: his 'childhood best friend,' Gabby, would throw a tantrum, threaten his mayoral campaign, and he' d oblige, promising to "fix it later." This time, the exhaustion was bone-deep, but when we sat in our lawyer' s office, something felt different. Chloe, the paralegal, grimly asked if she should schedule the reconciliation filing for next month, as usual. "There won't be a next time," I heard myself say, shocking even myself. But Andrew, ever the politician, just gave a weak, placating excuse about calming Gabby, just like always. Later, I walked into our brownstone to find Gabby and Andrew in the kitchen, laughing amidst a flour-dusted mess. My obsessively neat husband, covered in flour, asked if I could whip up Gabby's favorite coq au vin. "No," I said, a word that felt foreign on my tongue. Andrew' s face flushed; he shoved me, then dragged me by the arm and locked me in the dusty pantry, telling me I' d stay there until I learned to be "a supportive wife." Hours later, Gabby opened the door, sneered, and drenched me with a bucket of ice water. Something inside me, long dormant, snapped. I lunged, swung the empty bucket, and caught her head with a dull thud. Andrew rushed in, saw Gabby crying, grabbed a handful of my wet hair, and roared, "You crazy bitch! Apologize to her, or get the hell out of my house right now!" "Okay," I said, pulling out my phone. He looked confused. "Okay, what?" "Okay, I'll get out." I finally dialed Wesley, my old architecture mentor, the man Andrew had demanded I cut out of my life years ago. "Wesley?" I whispered, tears pricking my eyes. "Can you... can you come get me?" He didn' t ask why. "Send me the address. I'm on my way." This time, there was no turning back.

Revenge Divorce Drama Second chance Personal growth

Chapter 10

01-06 20:33

Introduction

My husband, Andrew, a promising politician, asked me for a divorce for the eighth time.

It was always the same drill: his 'childhood best friend,' Gabby, would throw a tantrum, threaten his mayoral campaign, and he' d oblige, promising to "fix it later."

This time, the exhaustion was bone-deep, but when we sat in our lawyer' s office, something felt different.

Chloe, the paralegal, grimly asked if she should schedule the reconciliation filing for next month, as usual.

"There won't be a next time," I heard myself say, shocking even myself.

But Andrew, ever the politician, just gave a weak, placating excuse about calming Gabby, just like always.

Later, I walked into our brownstone to find Gabby and Andrew in the kitchen, laughing amidst a flour-dusted mess.

My obsessively neat husband, covered in flour, asked if I could whip up Gabby's favorite coq au vin.

"No," I said, a word that felt foreign on my tongue.

Andrew' s face flushed; he shoved me, then dragged me by the arm and locked me in the dusty pantry, telling me I' d stay there until I learned to be "a supportive wife."

Hours later, Gabby opened the door, sneered, and drenched me with a bucket of ice water.

Something inside me, long dormant, snapped.

I lunged, swung the empty bucket, and caught her head with a dull thud.

Andrew rushed in, saw Gabby crying, grabbed a handful of my wet hair, and roared, "You crazy bitch! Apologize to her, or get the hell out of my house right now!"

"Okay," I said, pulling out my phone.

He looked confused. "Okay, what?"

"Okay, I'll get out."

I finally dialed Wesley, my old architecture mentor, the man Andrew had demanded I cut out of my life years ago.

"Wesley?" I whispered, tears pricking my eyes. "Can you... can you come get me?"

He didn' t ask why. "Send me the address. I'm on my way."

This time, there was no turning back.