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"That's not enough," Emily's voice cut through the silence, light and bored.
I looked up from the floor, my forehead raw. She was examining her nails, a dismissive look on her perfect face.
"A kowtow is so old-fashioned," she continued, finally gracing me with her gaze. "If she really wants to show remorse for her husband's failures, she should crawl. Crawl over here and lick my shoes. Maybe then we' ll be convinced."
Mr. Henderson chuckled. "An excellent idea, Ms. Hayes."
I stared at her, then at David. The blood drained from my face. This wasn't about a fake debt anymore. This was a sport for them. Humiliating me was their entertainment.
David' s face twitched. He seemed momentarily caught off guard by the new direction of the script. He knelt beside me, his voice a frantic whisper.
"Sarah, just listen," he hissed, trying to keep up his facade of a desperate husband caught in a nightmare. "It's a game to them. Don't provoke them. Just... just do it and it will be over. I'll make it up to you, I promise. Think of it as a performance. It doesn't mean anything."
Doesn't mean anything? My dignity? My self-respect? It meant nothing to him because he had been systematically destroying it for ten years.
"No," I said. The word was quiet, but it felt like a scream in the silent room.
I pushed myself up, my legs shaking. "I'm leaving."
I turned to walk away, but David lunged, grabbing my arm. His grip was like steel. The mask of the pathetic loser was gone, replaced by the cold, hard face of the man in control.
"You're not going anywhere," he said, his voice low and menacing.
"Let go of me, David."
"You'll do as you're told," he said, his fingers digging into my flesh. "You'll do it, and then you'll go home and wait for me like a good wife."
Emily stood up and sauntered over. She stopped in front of me, her eyes filled with a chilling mixture of pity and contempt.
"Poor thing," she purred. "Still trying to have some pride left?"
Then, without warning, she slapped me.
The force of it snapped my head to the side, my cheek stinging. Stars exploded behind my eyes.
"That's for interrupting our celebration," she said calmly. She reached into her expensive clutch and pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills. She threw them in my face. The bills fluttered around me, landing on my hair, my shoulders, and the floor at my feet.
"And that's for your trouble," she said with a cruel smile. "Go on. Pick it up. Isn't that what you're good at? Scrabbling for scraps?"
David let go of my arm. He stood back, watching, his expression unreadable. He didn't defend me. He didn't stop her. He was complicit. He was the director of this entire, horrific scene.
I didn't bend down. I just stared at the money scattered on the floor around me. It was more cash than I usually saw in a month. It was also an insult so profound it left me breathless.
I turned and walked out of the room. This time, no one stopped me. I walked through the glittering hallways of the convention center, past the smiling staff and the successful people, a ghost haunting a world I was never meant to be a part of.
The apartment felt colder and damper than ever when I got back. It was more than a home; it was a cage he had built for me. A stage set for his play of poverty. I looked at the peeling paint on the walls, the leaking faucet in the sink that he always claimed we couldn't afford to fix. I thought of his penthouse apartment, which I'd seen in a magazine spread online. I thought of the luxury cars, the private jets.
I had lived in this hovel, patching my clothes, eating cheap noodles, worrying about every single dollar, while he was living a life of unimaginable luxury. The contrast was so stark, so grotesque, it made me want to scream.
I walked into my small art corner. The canvas on the easel was blank, yellowing with age. My paints were dried up, my brushes stiff. I had given it all up for him. I had sacrificed my soul for a man who used my love as a stepping stone and my heart as a plaything.
The regret was a physical weight, pressing down on me, crushing the air from my lungs. Ten years. He had stolen ten years of my life. And I had let him.
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