His Illness Was A Weapon

Carte

at me, his eyes burning, before tearing the documents into tiny pieces and throwing them at my feet. "You think this is how

emotion. I knew then that simple demands wouldn't work. He unders

furniture, the sterile perfection he demanded. I stopped at the mudroom, deliberately tracking thick, wet so

the cream-colored Persian rug in the center of the room. A deep, damning crimson bloom against the vi

ng answers, demanding cleanliness. I waited, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs, but

dn' t returned. My initial triumph began to curdle into a d

gers trembled as I opened it. The image that loaded sent a shock

arma. An

eyes were closed, a faint smile on his lips, completely unconcerned by the oil that smeared her skin, or the crumbs that might fall. In

raw, change into freshly sanitized clothes, and stand at a meticulous distance before he would even conside

ion I had spent six years of my life managing, mitigating, enduring, was apparently not a r

fection he tolerated. All the times I convinced myself his distance wasn't personal, it was just h

he last vestiges of my pain. He hadn't just betrayed me. He

is Dr. Carter. I want Karma Underwood terminated immediately." My vo

Mr. York put a special clause in her contract. She can only be terminated with h

d her. He had insulated her from any consequences. Th

accusing. "What the hell are you doing, Alyssa? Trying to sabo

s, Jackson? The one you share greasy pizza with, the one you let smear your fa

question me. You are my wife. Your job is to support me, not to make a mockery of everything I've

. Self-reflect? My issues? He was the one who kept me at arm's length, the one

" I snarled into the phone. "Fine. But I'll

I was a psychologist. I knew how to dig. It didn't take long to find the old photos, the wild parties, the questionable company, the br

ng my key card. I marched straight into the lobby, past the stunned security guards, and began plastering the photos all ov

ocent" facade shattered, replaced by images of her drunkenly dancing on tables, kissing strangers, doing things that would make even

saw the photos, his eyes widening in horror, then narrowing on me. He tore them do

his voice echoing through the sudd

ing out with wide, tearful eyes, playing the victim. B

ed, his voice amplified, shaking the very foundations of the building. "Anyone caught g

a hatred that mirrored my own. "Karma isn't just a paralegal anymore," he snarled, pulling her forward. "She's my

ll. I had miscalculated. He had raised the stakes, publicl

s arm wrapped around her. "Some people just don't know when to quit, do

ning employees following me like shadows. I got into my car, my hand

ea washed over me. The entire place was in ruins. Furniture overturned, files scattered, my diplomas ripped from the walls, shards o

es filled with a desperate terror. It was a picture I had taken during his darkest days, when his OCD had crippled hi

, desperate for a solution, had brought him to me. I had dedicated years to him, painstakingly rebuilding his life, teaching him coping mechanisms, helping him rec

the place that defined me, the place where I had poured all my efforts to save him. The irony was a bitter, metallic taste in

m. The photo, his broken face from years ago, now mocked me, a painful reminder of the monster I had unleashed upon myself. My hands reached for the shattered frame, a sharp edge cutting into