The Man I Thought I Married
“The problem,” I said slowly, “is that your mother walked into our room on our wedding night and ordered me to wash your family’s clothes.”
“So?”
I stared at him.
“So?”
Lorraine sighed dramatically.
“This is exactly what I warned you about. Girls who grow up without proper families don’t understand respect.”
Owen knew my parents were dead.
He knew the subject still hurt.
He said nothing.
That silence hurt more than Lorraine’s insult.
I picked up the pile of shirts and dropped them onto the floor.
“No.”
Lorraine looked horrified.
Derek laughed.
Owen’s entire expression changed.
“Pick those up.”
“I’m going to bed.”
“Cass.”
There was something in his voice I had never heard before.
Not annoyance.
Authority.
The ugly kind.
I moved toward the bathroom.
He stepped in front of me.
“I said pick them up.”
“And I said no.”
His hand closed around my wrist.
Hard.
My champagne glass slipped from my fingers and shattered against the hardwood.
For a second, everyone froze.
I looked down at his hand.
“Owen. Release me.”
“You embarrassed my mother.”
“She embarrassed herself.”
His grip tightened.
Then Lorraine spoke quietly.
“Your wife needs to learn what happens when she disrespects her husband.”
Something changed in Owen’s face.
Maybe he had always been this man.
Maybe he had simply needed permission to show me.
He shoved me backward.
My hip struck the dresser.
Pain shot through my side.
“Owen!”
He lifted one finger inches from my face.
“You are not going to come into my family and start acting like you’re better than everyone.”
The irony almost made me laugh.
He had no idea.
He thought I had nothing.
And he hated me anyway for refusing to behave as though I were beneath him.
When I reached for the door, he blocked me again.
“Apologize.”
“To whom?”
“My mother.”
“For what?”
“For being disrespectful.”
I looked at Lorraine.
She seemed almost pleased.
I looked at Derek.
He suddenly found the floor fascinating.
Then I looked back at my husband.
“No.”
The slap came so quickly I didn’t see his arm move.
My head snapped sideways.
For several seconds, all I heard was a high ringing sound.
My cheek burned.
My lip caught against my teeth.
When I touched it, my fingers came away red.
Owen’s expression changed immediately.
Not into remorse.
Into fear.
Not fear that he had hurt me.
Fear that I might do something about it.
Lorraine broke the silence.
“Maybe now she’ll understand.”
That was the moment my marriage ended.
Not legally.
That would come later.
But inside me, it was over.
I walked to the closet and pulled out my carry-on suitcase.
Owen scoffed.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving.”
“At midnight?”
“Yes.”
“Stop being dramatic.”
I folded two dresses into the bag.
“You hit me.”
“You pushed me into it.”
I stopped.
Slowly, I turned around.
He actually believed that sentence.
I zipped my suitcase.
Owen grabbed the handle.
“You’re not leaving.”
I looked at his hand.
“Take your hand off my bag.”
“Or what?”
For the first time that night, I smiled.
It wasn’t a happy smile.
It was the smile I usually wore before a hostile acquisition.
“Owen, you have absolutely no idea what happens next.”
He laughed.
“You make fifty grand a year and have twelve hundred dollars worth of furniture. Stop pretending you’re dangerous.”
I pulled the suitcase from his grip.
Downstairs, his father, Raymond, was asleep in a recliner with the television on.
Nobody stopped me as I walked outside in my wedding dress carrying a suitcase.
Owen followed me onto the porch.
“You’re seriously calling a rideshare?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“That apartment is barely eight hundred square feet.”
“Not that home.”
He frowned.
My driver arrived seven minutes later.
Before getting inside, I removed my wedding ring.
Owen watched me hold it between two fingers.
“Cass, don’t do something stupid.”
I placed the ring on the brick ledge beside him.
“You already did.”
Then I left.
Owen thought I was walking away with nothing. He had no idea where I was actually going.
