His Penance, My Freedom

His Penance, My Freedom

Gavin

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Two years, Alex. It's been two years. My whisper was dry, lost in the cold, vast living room where I knelt on marble, gripping his expensive trousers. For two years, since his mother' s death, this had been my life, my prison. He blamed me, twisted a lie of grief into his truth: I' d hidden her sickness for his company' s IPO. Every week, a different woman. They wore my robes, used my perfume, slept in our bed. My task: welcome, serve, clean. I swallowed humiliation because my father was sick, his treatments astronomically expensive. Alex Thorne, my husband, was my only hope. But when I begged for money, for my father on his deathbed, Alex sneered, "Let him die." "It's what he deserves for having a daughter like you." Then the hospital called: My father was gone. He took his own life, leaving a note, not wanting to be a burden. I was on my knees, begging for a life already lost. "Problem solved," Alex chirped to his current paramour, tossing my phone aside. My world shattered. He was a monster who savored my pain. Something inside me snapped. The part that endured, that hoped, broke. "No," I said, rising on shaky legs. "I want a divorce, Alex." He laughed, demanding I apologize to his mistress, then commanded me to clean toilets with a toothbrush. He was mocking me. Humiliating me. Using my deepest wounds as his amusement. But as I knelt once more, a single thought crystallised: I wouldn't just leave him. I would erase him. And when he then shoved me, triggering a terrifying pain and a warm, wet sensation, I knew my silent revolution had just begun. He might have killed my father and our unborn child, but he had just awakened the storm within me.

Introduction

Two years, Alex.

It's been two years.

My whisper was dry, lost in the cold, vast living room where I knelt on marble, gripping his expensive trousers.

For two years, since his mother' s death, this had been my life, my prison.

He blamed me, twisted a lie of grief into his truth: I' d hidden her sickness for his company' s IPO.

Every week, a different woman.

They wore my robes, used my perfume, slept in our bed.

My task: welcome, serve, clean.

I swallowed humiliation because my father was sick, his treatments astronomically expensive.

Alex Thorne, my husband, was my only hope.

But when I begged for money, for my father on his deathbed, Alex sneered, "Let him die."

"It's what he deserves for having a daughter like you."

Then the hospital called: My father was gone.

He took his own life, leaving a note, not wanting to be a burden.

I was on my knees, begging for a life already lost.

"Problem solved," Alex chirped to his current paramour, tossing my phone aside.

My world shattered.

He was a monster who savored my pain.

Something inside me snapped.

The part that endured, that hoped, broke.

"No," I said, rising on shaky legs.

"I want a divorce, Alex."

He laughed, demanding I apologize to his mistress, then commanded me to clean toilets with a toothbrush.

He was mocking me.

Humiliating me.

Using my deepest wounds as his amusement.

But as I knelt once more, a single thought crystallised: I wouldn't just leave him.

I would erase him.

And when he then shoved me, triggering a terrifying pain and a warm, wet sensation, I knew my silent revolution had just begun.

He might have killed my father and our unborn child, but he had just awakened the storm within me.

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