Chapter 58
58:
Brendon’s eyes burned with rage as he stormed forward—then, without warning, slammed Christina against the wall. His hand locked around her throat, fingers digging into her skin. “Christina, do you get off on seducing other men?” he growled, his face inches from hers.
Around them, the others just watched—eyes glittering, lips twitching in satisfaction. No one moved to stop him. No one dared.
“Are you insane?” Christina hissed, her voice a razor blade of defiance. “Who have I seduced? What are you even talking about?”
She couldn’t understand. What the hell was wrong with him? Just moments ago, he’d been composed—cold, maybe, but in control. Now he looked feral. Unhinged. His eyes were bloodshot, his breath ragged. Was he having a stroke or some kind of psychotic breakdown?
“You never dressed up for me,” Brendon sneered. “Always cold. Distant. Treated me like I was in your way. But once another man glances at you, suddenly you’re all smiles and softness?”
Christina’s laugh was sharp, bitter, laced with venom. She had dressed up for Brendon once.
The memory hit her like a freight train. It was the day Brendon had finally walked again—no wheelchair, no crutches, just his own two legs beneath him. She’d been ecstatic. To celebrate, she spared no effort. A full spa day. Hair curled into soft, elegant waves. Flawless makeup. A new dress—deep burgundy, his favorite color. Heels she hadn’t worn in years.
She had spent hours preparing a candlelit dinner—his favorite dishes, arranged with meticulous care. Every detail was perfect. Every second charged with anticipation. But as the sun dipped lower, he hadn’t come home.
The food had cooled. She reheated it. It cooled again. She kept trying, like maybe if she kept the dinner warm, she could keep hope alive, too.
But food could be reheated. A numb heart could not.
Lɑτєѕτ cнαρτєrs 𝑖n g𝓪l𝗇ovєl𝑠.𝓬o𝓶
That was the thing about divorce—it was rarely sparked by a single explosion. It was the weight of a thousand quiet disappointments, slowly crushing everything beneath them until nothing was left but frost.
By the time midnight crept in, so had Brendon—reeking of alcohol, jacket half-buttoned, eyes glassy. She was still there. Alone in the dark. The candles had burned out. The food had crusted over.
He had staggered in, saw her, and whispered, “Yolanda… I missed you so much.”
Her heart hadn’t just been broken. It had been shattered. He had clung to her, slurring promises meant for someone else, pouring out love that was never hers to keep. Every word was a dagger.
And then, when he had reached for Christina—tried to kiss her, touch her, take her—she shoved him back. His breath was sour. His hands, unwelcome.
When he lurched toward her again, she slapped him as hard as she could. “Open your damn eyes!” she hissed, her voice low and shaking with fury. “I’m Christina. Not Yolanda.”
Then, Christina turned and walked away, each step slicing through the silence like a blade. Her dress flared behind her, the final flicker of a flame she’d kept alive far too long. That night, she stripped off every trace of hope. She wiped away her makeup with shaking hands. Tore the dress from her body like it was made of lies. Kicked off the heels. Tossed it all in the trash.
Christina had never dressed up again. It wasn’t about giving up—it was about refusing to be someone else’s stand-in. Brendon only ever looked at her when she was dolled up enough to blur into another woman. She wasn’t a placeholder. She wasn’t a goddamn echo. She was Christina. And no one—no one—got to treat her like a consolation prize.
Brendon had never understood why Christina defaulted to simple clothes. He never saw her exhaustion. The endless caregiving. Cooking, cleaning, bathing him, lifting him, catching him when he stumbled. Holding in her tears until she could cry quietly behind a locked bathroom door. For months, she had been nurse, maid, cook, therapist, punching bag, all while he simmered in bitterness and lashed out at her like she was the reason he fell. But she had endured in silence.
And now—now, after everything—Brendon accused her of dressing up for other men but never for him? As if he hadn’t pissed all over every effort she’d made. A broken laugh tore from her throat, raw and jagged. The irony. The absolute absurdity.
Her eyes met Brendon’s—wild, gleaming, unhinged—and her laughter broke loose, sharp and spiraling into hysteria. It was the laugh of someone who had bled too much to cry anymore.
.
.
.