Chapter 5: The Last Straw

In four years, I’d never refused him. His needs were always there—unless I was sick or he was away, we shared a bed almost every night.

I used to think that was love. I thought I was lucky, envied by the women at the country club. But now, it all felt empty.

When he was gone on business, I couldn’t sleep. I’d count the days, buy new lingerie, rehearse clever things to say. The bedroom was the only place I felt wanted.

I was always afraid of his anger, but sometimes, I provoked it on purpose—because when he was mad, I felt seen. It was twisted, but I craved the heat of his attention.

Once, after a fight, I stayed with my best friend in Chicago for a week. Jason flew out to get me, furious. In the penthouse suite, he pressed me against the window, city lights blazing behind us.

He was desperate, I was breathless—crying and laughing at the same time.

He wouldn’t stop, even when my voice was hoarse from crying. In the end, he whispered, teeth gritted:

"Emily, if you run away again, I’ll kill you in bed. Crying is useless."

It was half threat, half promise. Back then, it felt like love. Now, it felt like a cage.

I thought passion meant love. I mistook intensity for devotion.

Now, my body is numb. My heart, too. The spark is gone.

I pulled free from his arms. The air between us was brittle, crackling with things unsaid.

"Jason, let’s separate."

The words came out before I knew I’d said them. They landed between us, heavy as stone.

I looked at him, then laughed at myself. We had a child, but no marriage license. Just a contract, like a business deal.

He stared, stunned, then asked quietly, "Is it because I clarified things to the media?"

His voice was almost gentle, but his eyes were searching for a weakness.

I wanted to say it wasn’t just that. Maybe, if it were only the public statement, I could’ve found a hundred excuses. But he denied our daughter’s existence.

That was more than a press release. It was erasing Maddie.

Her tears haunted me every night. I couldn’t forgive him for making her feel invisible.

"Yes."

My answer was quiet but firm.

"You know that was just for the media."

He sounded annoyed, as if explaining a tax form.

He looked at me, cold. "I’m very busy. I don’t have time to coddle you over something so trivial."

The room felt colder. I tried not to flinch.

I tucked my fists into the comforter, knuckles white. No tears—not in front of him.

"I don’t need your comfort. I’m serious. That contract can be destroyed. I just want Maddie."

My voice shook, but I held his gaze.

A flicker of mockery crossed his eyes. "You’re using Maddie to threaten me? Wanting me to acknowledge you and Maddie in public?"

"No..."

"I’ve told you before, that’s impossible. At least not for the next few years. Absolutely impossible."

He cut me off, voice final. "Emily, I can indulge you in many things, but not this. There’s no room for discussion."

His eyes were icy, the look you give a problem you wish would disappear.

The room was climate-controlled, but I shivered uncontrollably.

Before we married, my best friend warned me. But I’d been stubborn.

"So what if Jason Hartman is a block of stone? One day, water can wear through stone."

That’s what I believed. I thought patience was enough.

But now, I’m done. I want to be free water, not a single drop stuck under the eaves for a lifetime.

"Think it over tonight. Once you’ve decided, move back."

It was an order. The conversation was over.

Jason left the guest room. The door closed with a heavy thud, not matching his usual control.

The sound echoed down the hall. I waited until his footsteps faded before letting myself cry.

I lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, the house creaking around me. Somewhere, a siren wailed. I wondered where I’d be next week.

In a few days, Grandpa Joe Hartman would return from Florida. He always made the final call. If he agreed, I could leave with Maddie.

The Hartman family valued sons. Mrs. Hartman barely looked at Maddie, had her own ideas about the perfect daughter-in-law, and never hid her dislike for me. Now that I wanted to leave, it was probably exactly what they wanted.

Family portraits lined the halls—Hartman men, generation after generation. Maddie’s laughter always drew frowns. Her artwork quietly disappeared from the fridge. I was tolerated, never loved.