Too Late, Mr. Rockstar

My husband, a rockstar on the rise, just dedicated his Battle of the Bands victory to his "true muse"-our band's new bassist, Molly.

Then they shared a long, passionate kiss on stage, right in front of me, as I stood there, holding the victory cake I' d spent two days baking for him.

Later, I heard him laugh, calling me "pathetic," a "church girl playing dress-up" who "just tries too hard."

Then, after he "saved" me from harassing strangers, he publicly shamed me for my outfit and forced me to drink until I ended up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning.

Fresh from the ER, I saw him on one knee, proposing. Not to me, but to Molly, whispering, "I'll take care of you and our baby," words eerily similar to those he' d used when he pressured me into an abortion.

He then ripped off my designer leather jacket, the one I' d saved for months to buy for him, and draped it over Molly, declaring she "actually looks good in this."

How could he, my husband, betray me so completely and utterly humiliate me? Was this all a twisted joke, or was this the man I married all along?

Instead of crying or screaming, a strange, cold calm washed over me, and I walked straight out of that hospital, pulling out my phone to call Austin's best divorce lawyer.

The feedback shrieked through the speakers, a high-pitched scream that made my teeth ache. On stage, my husband, Ethan Lester, bathed in the white-hot spotlight, raised a trophy above his head. His band had just won the Austin "Battle of the Bands" finale.

"This is for my true muse," he yelled into the microphone, his voice raw with emotion. "The wildest soul I know. Molly Chadwick!"

The crowd roared. Molly, the band's new bassist, stepped forward and threw her arms around him. They kissed, a long, passionate kiss right there on stage for everyone to see.

I stood frozen in the sticky, beer-soaked crowd. In my hands, I held a heavy cake box. Inside was a custom-made, multi-layered black velvet cake, decorated with a sugar replica of his favorite guitar. A victory cake. For him.

My hands started to tremble. The box felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.

As the band left the stage, I pushed my way through the throng, heading for the backstage door. I needed to understand. I needed him to look at me and explain.

I found his bandmates first, huddled in a corner, smoking.

"Dude, what the hell was that?" the drummer, Kevin, asked Ethan as he swaggered over. "You just humiliated Gabrielle in front of the entire city."

Ethan took a long drag from Kevin's cigarette and scoffed, the smoke curling from his lips.

"Molly's the real deal. Gabrielle just tries too hard."

He let out a harsh laugh.

"She's like a church girl playing dress-up. It's pathetic."

The words hit me harder than a physical blow. Pathetic. That's what he thought of me. The studded leather jacket I wore, the ripped fishnets, the heavy black eyeliner-it was all a costume I put on for him, a desperate attempt to fit into his world. And he saw right through it. He always did.

The cake box slipped from my numb fingers. I didn't even watch it fall. I turned and walked away, my vision blurring. Outside, in the grimy alley behind the venue, the first thing I saw was a overflowing dumpster.

Without a second thought, I picked up the cake box, lifted the lid, and stared at the perfect, intricate dessert I had spent two days creating. Then I shoved the whole thing deep into the stinking garbage, burying it under discarded food containers and wet cardboard.

The alley was dark, lit only by a flickering bulb above a back door. I leaned against the brick wall, trying to breathe. The punk rock clothes that were supposed to make me feel like I belonged now felt like a cheap, ill-fitting costume.

Suddenly, a group of men stumbled out of the bar's back entrance. They were drunk, their laughter loud and aggressive. They saw me immediately.

"Well, look what we have here," one of them slurred, his eyes raking over my torn fishnets and short skirt.

"Lost, little punk princess?" another one sneered, stepping closer.

They formed a semi-circle around me, trapping me against the wall. Panic seized me. I opened my mouth to scream, but only a choked sound came out. My phone was in my clutch, but my hands were shaking too badly to get it.

"Ethan!" I cried out, the name a desperate reflex.

Just then, the door swung open again and Ethan appeared, silhouetted against the bar's dim light.

"Get the hell away from her," he snarled at the men. They grumbled but backed off, melting back into the darkness.

Relief washed over me, but it was short-lived. Ethan turned on me, his face a mask of fury.

"What did you expect, dressing like a slut?" he hissed, his voice loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. "Are you trying to get attention from other guys now? Is that it?"

He grabbed my arm and dragged me back inside the dive bar, where the after-party was in full swing. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of stale beer. His band and their friends were crowded around a table, raising their glasses.

"To Ethan and Molly!" someone shouted, and the group cheered.

Molly, looking effortlessly cool in a vintage band t-shirt and ripped jeans, smiled and leaned into Ethan. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close. I stood there, an outsider at my own husband's celebration.

One of Ethan's friends, a roadie named Spike, shoved a tray of shot glasses in front of me. "Come on, Gabrielle! Loosen up! A round for the winner's old lady!"

I recoiled. I rarely drank, and hard liquor made me sick. "No, thank you. I'm okay."

Ethan rolled his eyes, his voice dripping with contempt. "See? Can't even hang. Molly could drink you under the table."

As if on cue, Molly grabbed a full beer from the table, tilted her head back, and chugged the entire thing without stopping. The crowd went wild, cheering her on. She slammed the empty bottle down, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a triumphant smirk on her face.

Every eye in the room was on me. The humiliation was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest. I felt small, stupid, and completely out of place. Fine. I would show them. I would show him.

I grabbed a shot glass from the tray. Then another. And another. The cheap tequila burned a path down my throat. The room started to spin. My stomach churned violently.

"I... I have to go," I mumbled, stumbling away from the table.

As I pushed my way toward the door, I heard Ethan's voice cut through the noise.

"What a buzzkill."

The cool night air hit me like a slap. I made it to the alley before my legs gave out. I collapsed onto the grimy pavement, the world dissolving into a black, spinning void. The last thing I remembered was the sound of a stranger's voice, distant and concerned, saying they were calling 911.