Page 15 of Vintage

Something about him was off, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was the one who pushed Amery to this breaking point.

I jogged to him, and punched him in face, growling in a deadly voice. "Let me tell you, if my wife thinks she can leave me, she’ll have to go over my dead body, and I won't have you be the reason for it, bastard. I’ll bury you with my bare hands."

No one is taking my Amery from me.

Not even that damn Willow.

Chapter Eight

Last night, I wept myself to sleep, those haunting words escaping my lips in a way I never imagined possible.

We had promised each other forever, just the night before our wedding. That night, we were still just a couple, blissfully unaware of the storm that would hit us as we prepared to say "I do" the next morning.

It was me who proposed to Rowan. Everyone was shocked when they found out I was the one who brought him to his knees with roses and chocolates, asking him to be my husband.

He agreed, and within a week, I pulled him down the aisle, exchanging vows in a simple church ceremony followed by a modest brunch with our families. It was all so plain, nothing over the top, and in that moment, I became his, and he became mine.

So how did we end up here?

I glanced at him, sitting on the couch in our room, emotionless, dressed only in his trousers and tousled hair, casually reading the morning paper and sipping his beloved ginger tea. It looked like any other day.

But it wasn’t.

I was trapped in our bed, my right hand cuffed to the bedpost, and it was all his doing.

I couldn’t wrap my head around it; this was how he reacted to my divorce announcement. While I despised his response, a small part of me felt a strange sense of calm, a flicker of love that still lingered for him, even as the rest of me burned with rage, hatred, and a desire for revenge.

My wretched husband.

"Ro, this is so immature!" I shouted, straining against the cuff, desperately hoping it would somehow come loose.

He turned to me, setting down his paper and tea.

That smile of his was hypnotic.

He sat there, hands clasped over his thigh, legs crossed, leaning back as if he were lost in a film rather than watching me. The ease in his posture sent disturbing chills down my spine.

I clenched my jaw, fury bubbling beneath the surface. How could he be so indifferent?!

“If this is how you want to play it, I’ll have no choice but to call the police. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” My voice trembled as I searched for my phone, panic rising when I realized it was nowhere to be found.

I distinctly remember placing it on the nightstand.

...No, it can’t be...

I turned to Ro, and there it was—a smirk plastered across his face.

“Looking for this, Mrs. Rowan?” He dangled my phone in the air, laughter dripping from his words, taunting me.

“Ro, give it back!” I screamed, pulling against the cuff, the metal biting into my skin, a sharp reminder of my helplessness.

He rose, tossing my phone onto the coffee table with a casual flick, then approached me, his presence suffocating.

He settled beside me on the bed, his grip tightening around my cuffed wrist as he examined the bruise forming there.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he said, his voice heavy with concern.

So, he does know how to joke.

---