Fluoxetine

Jasmine

Sweat drips down my body despite the air conditioning blasting in the car. My hands tremble as I clutch the divorce agreement, my fingers tightening around the edges.

My heart pounds in my chest, a mix of fear and relief swelling inside me. I can't believe this moment has finally arrived—I am divorcing Maxwell. The man I once believed was my forever.

We have been married for three years, and before that, we were college sweethearts.

Everyone expected us to tie the knot the moment we graduated. We were the perfect couple—the golden duo that made people believe in love.

The first year of our marriage is nothing short of a dream, filled with laughter, passion, and late-night talks that stretch until dawn.

But after that, everything crumbles. My love story turns into a nightmare of betrayal and deceit.

Maxwell is unfaithful. He doesn't even bother hiding it anymore. He comes home late, reeking of perfume that isn’t mine, with lipstick stains on his collar and his phone screen, turned away from my sight.

Whenever I confront him, he gaslights me, calling me paranoid, insecure, and delusional. He twists the truth so masterfully that I almost start doubting myself.

But deep down, I know. I always know.

His emotional abuse is a wound that never heals, cutting deeper with every cold glance and dismissive word.

And as if that isn’t enough, there is another painful reality weighing on my shoulders—I have not been able to conceive in the three years of our marriage.

This fact only worsens the tension between us. I overheard him complaining to his mother in hushed tones, his voice dripping with frustration.

I need a child, Mom. She can't give me one. The words sting more than any slap ever could.

I have visited doctors repeatedly, searching for answers, hoping to fix whatever is wrong with me, only to be told that there is nothing medically preventing me from conceiving.

Yet, in Maxwell's eyes, I am the problem.

I exhale shakily and step out of my car, my legs unsteady as I approach the house.

His car is parked neatly in the garage. My brows furrow. He should be at work right now.

Maxwell is the CEO of a multinational company—his job keeps him busy at all hours of the day. What is he doing at home at this time?

I shake off the uneasy feeling creeping up my spine and enter the house. The living room is eerily quiet.

That in itself is strange. Maxwell never likes silence. He always plays soft music, whether he's working or relaxing. The absence of sound unsettles me.

As I make my way toward our bedroom, a faint noise reaches my ears. I freeze. My breath catches in my throat. The sound is unmistakable—a moan.

My heart pounds violently against my ribs. My body stiffens, and my mind races through every possible explanation. Maybe I misheard. Maybe it's the television. Maybe—

Another moan. This time, it is louder. Clearer. Feminine.

Dread crashes over me like a tidal wave.

I inch closer to the bedroom, my hands shaking, my ears straining to catch every sound.

Then I hear it.

"Ah, Max, faster. Mmm, Max, you are incredible."

The voice is high-pitched, dripping with pleasure.

I stop breathing. A sharp pain stabs through my chest like a knife twisting in slow, agonizing circles.

The betrayal isn’t new, but hearing it and witnessing it makes it all the more unbearable.

My fingers tighten into fists as rage boils inside me. I push the bedroom door open, my movements slow and deliberate, my heart thundering in my ears.

And there they are.

A naked woman is on top of my husband, her body bouncing on his lap as Maxwell grips her hips, his head thrown back in pleasure.

A red haze clouds my vision. The sight of them in our bed, on our sheets, in our home—it is too much.

I cannot hold back.