12. Where Were You?
1265 Words
The moment Emma’s heel clicked against the marble floor near the exit of the Jones estate, Oliver struck like a viper—his hand lashing out to seize her wrist in a bruising grip.
“Where the hell have you been?” His voice was low, venomous—a blade honed by fury and laced with the sting of whiskey.
Emma didn’t flinch. She turned slowly, her gaze icy, cutting through him. “That’s none of your business.”
“None of my business?” He yanked her forward, his face inches from hers, his breath hot with alcohol and rage. “You’re my f*****g wife.”
A bitter laugh escaped her lips, sharp and hollow. “Oh, really? So you still remember that?”
She jerked her arm free, rubbing at the angry red mark blooming across her wrist. “Funny how that title only matters when it’s convenient for you.”
His eyes dropped to her scarf— loosened in their struggle— and he froze. There, just above her collarbone, the bruised imprint of lips.
His pupils dilated. Fury darkened his expression.
“Is that a hickey?” The words came out as a growl.
Emma didn’t move to hide it. Instead, she lifted her chin and let the silk slide from her neck, baring the evidence for him to see.
“What if it is? What’s wrong, Oliver?” she asked, her tone laced with mock sweetness. “Jealous?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw.
“You’re really sleeping with someone else.” It wasn’t a question. It was a realization—and it cut.
Emma’s smile vanished. Her voice dropped, low and cold.
“And you’re really f*****g Shelby.” Her words hit with the weight of truth. “You want a baby. You want to keep me locked up in this house, wearing your name like a shackle. But you won’t touch me. So I found someone who will.”
Oliver moved like lightning.
His hands clamped onto her shoulders, slamming her back against the wall with bone-rattling force. The impact jarred her spine, but Emma refused to give him the satisfaction of a gasp.
“Tell me who it is,” he growled, voice low and lethal.
Emma’s lips curled into a cold, taunting smile. “Why? Planning to challenge him to a duel?”
His fingers dug deeper into her skin, hard enough to bruise. “This isn’t a joke, Emma.”
Her eyes narrowed, fury lacing every word. “Neither was the night you drugged me and brought a stranger into my bed.”
Her voice dropped to a hiss. “Or the years you paraded Shelby around like I didn’t exist.”
Oliver’s grip faltered—just for a breath.
“That was different,” he muttered.
“How?” She shoved at his chest, but he didn’t budge. Her voice rose. “Because you have money? Because you signed the checks and treated me like trash?”
His face twisted, raw and livid.
“I own every f*****g part of you,” he snarled, leaning closer. “Your debts. Your name. That contract you signed—you belong to me.”
Emma’s heart thundered, but her voice stayed level. “Then consider this my resignation.”
For a heartbeat, Oliver stared at her—genuinely stunned.
Then his expression curdled into something dark.
A smile—cruel, predatory.
“You think you can walk away?” His voice dropped to a whisper that burned like acid. “That your little boy toy will save you?”
He leaned in, so close his breath brushed her cheek. “I’ll ruin him.”
Emma’s fists clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. “Try it.”
Silence stretched, brittle and brimming with danger.
Then Oliver laughed. It was hollow, humorless. “Is this about the manwhore you found in a filthy club?”
The words hit her like a slap.
“Don’t say it like that.” Her voice trembled—not with fear, but with fury.
He leaned back just enough to study her face. His smirk widened.
“Oh… you have feelings for him.” His eyes glittered. “That’s why you’re shaking. That’s why you’re fighting me now, after all these years of being my obedient little doll.”
His thumb brushed the bruise on her neck, deliberately, mockingly.
“Does he know?” His voice dropped to a vicious whisper. “Does he know you’re paying him to fill the holes I left untouched?”
Something inside Emma snapped.
Her palm cracked across Oliver’s face with a resounding slap, the force whipping his head to the side.
He staggered, stunned, a bead of blood welling on his lower lip. Slowly, he touched it—then looked up at her, eyes black with fury.
“You’ll regret that.” His voice was low, feral.
Emma didn’t flinch. “I already regret marrying you,” she spat.
She smoothed her dress with deliberate grace, steadying the tremble in her chest. Her voice came out calm. Controlled.
“You need a baby to lock down your inheritance? Fine. I’ll give you one. But after that—we’re done. You get your heir, and I get my freedom. We owe each other nothing.”
Oliver wiped the blood from his mouth, his smile twisted and cold. “And what makes you think I’ll let you go?”
Emma took a step forward, closing the space between them. Her voice dropped to a deadly whisper.
“Because if you don’t, I’ll tell William everything.”
She watched his expression shift—just slightly—as her words sank in.
“The embezzlement. The shell accounts. All the money you’ve funneled out of his company to keep Shelby drowning in designer bags and diamonds.”
Her gaze sharpened, and she leaned in, her whisper like a blade at his throat.
“You will lose more than me, Oliver. You’ll lose everything.”
For the first time in their marriage, Oliver looked at her— really looked at her— like she was a threat.
Then his phone buzzed.
A text from Shelby: "We need to talk. It’s urgent."
Emma didn’t wait for his reply. She turned on her heel, her heels clicking like a death knell against the marble.
Oliver’s voice followed her, a vow wrapped in venom: "This isn’t over."
Emma didn’t glance back. "It was over the moment you forgot we were married."
As she stormed away, the heat of her confrontation with Oliver still burning through her veins, her phone vibrated. The screen lit up with Damien's name and a single teasing line: “miss me yet?”
A traitorous warmth spread through her chest, momentarily eclipsing her fury. Her fingers flew across the screen before she could stop them:
“Depends. Are you offering another round?”
The reply came before she'd taken three more steps:
“I’m offended you even have to ask.”
Emma huffed a laugh despite herself, tucking the phone away as her pace unconsciously quickened. Then it buzzed again:
“I will pick you up at 5. Be ready!”
Emma stared at the last text, thumb hovering over the screen. A frown creased her brow. Wait. She was the one paying him, wasn't she? Since when did escorts give orders instead of taking them?
The realization should have annoyed her. Instead, an unexpected thrill shot down her spine.
Get it together, Emma. Just until I conceive a baby. Then I can leave Oliver for good.
- Writer
