Page 44 of Her Possessive Dominant Fake Husband

A sharp laugh escaped me as I thought about how he’d been “so proud” of me for standing up to her. Yeah, right. What a load of BS.

Lifting my head, I tried to shut them out and look at the page I’d filled out. But it blurred in front of me, my hands shaking as I held them above the keys. Why had I even tried? The escape to my old life felt so sure at the time, like I could pick up the pieces and make something of them. But I should have known better.

My pulse thudded in my ears, a fast, erratic beat that kept getting louder. Jen’s laugh. Her words. The way she mocked me, knowing I wouldn’t fight back.

She left me with the truth.

That I lost him.

That I couldn’t hold on to anything.

That no matter what, I was doomed to fail.

And I sat there, my vision going dark, and I thought I’d break apart from how much it hurt to feel so damn powerless and broken.

I squeezed my eyes shut, choking back a sob. I was better than this. I was stronger. But the lies I told myself felt thin as tissue paper, tearing under the strain of holding everything inside. And the tears came, like a garden hose someone forgot to turn off.

“Claire, honey?” My mother’s voice, just inches away, made me jerk upright.

I hadn’t heard her come in.

Her footsteps were soft as she moved across the room, her eyes filling with worry as she took me in. She didn’t know. She couldn’t know. The effort to hold everything back made my body tense, rigid.

I couldn’t let her see.

I wouldn’t let her see.

I pushed the stack of papers to the side, forcing myself to breathe through the panic as she crossed to me.

“How did it go at the doctor?” I asked, my voice thin, threatening to break with the tears I couldn’t quite hide.

“Don’t change the subject,” she said, her eyes softening in a way that was harder to ignore than any number of bills or Jen’s cruelty. She reached out, a quick but gentle touch, her warmth so close that I could feel it. “What’s wrong? You look—”

“Fine,” I said, but the word was too fast, too harsh, and I knew she’d see right through it. I leaned back, trying to mask the ache that spread through me. She had enough to deal with, and I wouldn’t be another burden. “I’m fine, Mom. Really.”

I waited for her to buy it. To accept my lie and move on like I knew she needed to. But my mother wasn’t Jen. She wasn’t Alexander. She didn’t back away or leave me to figure it out alone.

Her eyes dropped to my hands, still holding the edge of the table too tightly, white-knuckled and desperate. “Claire.”

One short word. My name, but more than my name. I tried so hard to hold back, to keep myself from breaking.

I should have known it wouldn’t work.

Her expression softened. The same tenderness she’d shown me as a kid when I came home in tears, the same resolveto make everything better no matter how hopeless it felt. She knew. She always knew.

“Sweetheart, it’s not fine.” She reached out again, but I pulled away. If she hugged me right now, I’d lose it. I’d start bawling and maybe never stop. I couldn’t do that, not when I had so much to do.

The force of her care was a hit I didn’t know if I could survive.

“Don’t,” I whispered, but my voice wavered. I pulled away too slowly, and she saw. She always saw.

Her fingers found mine, the gentle contact empowering the tears to nearly fall as I blinked them back. And this time, I couldn’t pull away.

I didn’t pull away.

She held on, firmer, tighter, and all the tension I’d fought to contain broke loose with the impact of her touch. I let her pull me to my feet with minimal fuss and her warmth seeped into my hands, my bones, my heart. And it all fell apart, all at once, under the weight of her love.

My shoulders slumped forward, the strength I’d clung to slipping from my grasp like water through a sieve. My breath caught in my chest, causing so much pain I couldn’t inhale, and I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t want to stop it. I was crying, the sound breaking through the apartment, and my mother was there, pulling me closer.

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