Chapter 1

Alma’s Pov

“Holy molly..." 

“Fuck,”

“Oh fuck...Ella.”

Were the words that welcomed me. The sounds coming from my bathroom, our bathroom and tonight of all nights.

My husband, Damien. Masturbating.

“Ohh shit. Shit, Ella!” his voice reached my ears, groans. Echoing more and more. Trapping and almost knocking me off the bed. My face contorted in anything but happiness.

A clash sounded out too. Clattering of bottles, my shampoos most probably, notification sounds following. Meaning he was in there with his phone.

He had his phone with him, masturbating, moaning names. Which shouldn't exactly be a problem but-

My name wasn't Ella.

I wasn't Ella.

Me his wife, wasn't referred to as Ella and yet there he was calling out that name. Her name!

His ex.

"He's not jerking off to pictures of her, is he?" I asked slowly, my breath hitched. Disbelief and emotions of all sorts rising in me.

My cheeks wet. Tears.

I didn’t even realize I was already crying. Crying as I sat out there listening, replaying things, his voice, my plans, tonight, our night.

This was supposed to be our night, now everything's....

How long has this been going on? How long has he been doing this? When did he start? All the times he rushed home to have that 'quick shower', was he doing this??

Reminiscing and pleasuring himself with thoughts of her, an ex-girlfriend, and in our bathroom! Whereas we hadn't even had sex!

We haven't had sex since we got married, we hadn't made love!

Three years we've been married. Three years we've shared a bed, go to shower day and night separately, go to work together and yet, we hadn't had sex.

Would you believe that?

Would you?

Tonight's our 4th anniversary too. Four years. And he chose to do this. This.

Tonight.

"Did he even remember what today is??" I trembled, tears rolling down in bold balls. Shivers all over my body. Disgust. “Oh my God. Oh my...oh God."

My legs uncrossed from the pose I’d struck, hoping to surprise him. Excite him. Stir things up the moment he came out of the bathroom and saw me stark naked with nothing but the bloody crotchless lingerie.

Now I felt disgusted. Disgusted to even be seen in it. My robe coming back on instantly, gut clenching and doubling me over like I'd just been punched. Which I have.

I most definitely have. He did it.

The door sounded open then, “You're back." His voice followed. Calm. A tinge of surprise underneath but in seconds it was gone. Replaced by the one that was constant.

Indifference.

Distance.

He didn't even wait for me to respond or anything. He just shut the door behind him, wiping his hands clean with a towel he brought out. And wordlessly, he got dressed.

Just like that.

Like that didn't just happen. Him in there. Doing that- masturbating. Or even the fact I was out here in this very room and could've most likely heard him. His wife. Or didn't he care about that? Didn't he acknowledge... acknowledge that he's wrong right now?!

If he cared, he didn't show it.

"I'll be stepping out." He said instead, formal. Stepping out in a dark gray suit, no tie. Dark hair matching his dark eyes, barely a glance back at me. Not even through the mirrors.

"An urgent call came in. Few people I have to meet, don't wait up."

And just like that he was gone.

Gone.

I didn't even get the chance to do anything. Show off my lingerie or all the things I had planned out for tonight. For him. Us.

Tonight was supposed to be our night. The very moment we finally took things all the way and stopped living together like roommates or flatmates. Even animals got more intimate than this.

I had things planned out. Lots of things, spent months preparing and practicing several YouTube videos on how to make this night most memorable.

And he?

He chose to do this. To do all of this, treat me like- treat today like any worst day ever!

"How can he not remember our anniversary? How?"

I knew things weren't exactly great between us. We weren't the most intimate or loving indoors, but he always, always remembered it. Got me a present each and every time, if not for anything, to keep up the appearances.

Our role, like he calls it.

He'll open the car doors, wait for me to get in first, place his hand on the small part of my back protectively, guide me through crowds with calm authority. Pulls out chairs for me before taking his own seat, remember my coffee, favourite orders, call me his wife at every given opportunity, shut down disrespect at work towards me and yet.

It was all part of the role. His role. As a husband. My husband.

Once we were indoors, away from everyone, his actual self shows. Cold. Unaffectionate. Unattentive. Too indifferent to be bothered about me or taking seeing reasons to take our relationship further. In his eyes, we were nothing more than a solidified contract. A partnership with clear rules stated and signed.

But I guess it was my fault. It was my fault falling in love with him. My fault marrying him, thinking things weren't going to be like this.

Three years ago, my life was much simpler. We weren't together, but I loved him from a distance. I didn't have to hear him moan out someone's name, another woman, while I sat in the next room hoping that he'll see me. That he'll finally acknowledge my presence more than just a few words of good morning, goodnight, are you ready to leave now?

None of this happened to me at least.

I didn't sleep on the same bed with him and still feel cold on the inside. I didn't stand next to him everyday, feel his touch on my skin, inhale his exotic cologne, feel his body heat, all the while hoping he'd just fuck everything and scoop me up with a devastating kiss!

I wasn't leaving in this slow torture that was this marriage.

What was I even doing here? What were we doing together?

He won't kiss me, touch me, speak to me, spend time with me more than a few minutes of asking something either relating to his family, my family, work or even his grandma!

And today I find that he's still thinking of her. That woman, rumoured to be the only one he's ever loved. Went against his entire family for, his grandma inclusive. He still thought of her. Still remembered her, masturbated... masturbating to memories and pictures of her. Moaning out her name, in our own bathroom and on our anniversary night!

On a scale from one to ten, how worthless is my life right now?!

How worthless?

I clung to my robe tighter, so tight. Deeply ashamed of myself. Of what I had on, what I'd prepared, imagined for tonight. "So foolish... you're so foolish, Alma."

My phone vibrated then on the bed.

A text. Rosie. My best girl.

I didn't even read anything she said, I just sent mine. Hands trembling, “Let’s meet. Please.”

I dropped the phone after, picking up strength and running over to the closet. Tearing my robe off, tearing the bloody red lingerie Rosie had helped me pick out earlier in the day. Assuring me it'd make so irresistible Damien wouldn't have any choice but fall.

That wasn't true. That wasn't true at all.

I grabbed pants and a top. Getting dressed and hurrying out, refusing to stay in the silence of the house any longer.

If he could leave, so could I!

******

"What?!"

"He did what??" Rosie's voice shot everywhere, daring to raise above the music of the lounge. Not nearly succeeding though. The music was that loud. People were that loud, having fun. Life going so well for them.

Except me.

Always except me.

"It's true." I took a swing, drowning yet another glass, another shot. Rosie still in disbelief in front of me, making me repeat everything over and over like it'd change anything in anywhere.

"My husband's still thinking about his ex-girlfriend. He's moaning her name, masturbating in our bathroom!" I took her own shot, drinking. Her head shaking.

"No way. I don't- I refuse to believe it. Damien? Your Damien?? Mastubat- no way!"

See?

See what a good reputation he had. What a good record he'd built, even my own best friend doubted my wirfs and struggled to believe me. I didn't believe it myself, I wouldn't believe it if someone had told me this!

That's how much I trusted him

I took another drink. Three shots this time, drowning them one after the other. The burning in my throat tripling but I didn't care. I couldn't care. Some place else burned inside of me. My chest.

“Girlie, Almie, y-you have to stop drinking." Rosie took them, pushing them away. "You have to stop."

“If I stop...what then can I do?" I asked her, quiet. Breaking. "What then should I do? My husband's thinking about his ex, will rather masturbate to memories of her than sleep with me, Rosie. I am his wife. His wife and he doesn't want me! What else should I do, Rosie??" I sobbed. Broke down fully. The tears that'd been aching to fall, the heartbreak, disappointment...all of it coming down together. Landing on Rosie's lap as she held me.

"My husband doesn't want me, Rosie. He doesn't..."

"Ohh, Almie... I'm so sorry." She cooed, breaking down too. "I'm so sorry, I didn't... I'm sorry."

“It hurts," I cried, "It hurts so bad, do bad."

“Damien’s a jerk!" She cussed, "An evil manipulative bastard, I hate him so much right now!”

Wished I could say the same. Really wished I could... Maybe then this wouldn't hurt as much. It wouldn't hurt if I didn't love him.

Now, I could spend all night crying, yelling out to the world, this lounge about how my husband forgot our anniversary, doing the worst in our bathroom. But my bladder said otherwise.

“I need to pee.” I grunted, pulled apart from Rosie’s warm embrace. Not knowing that was the last of me and warmness for the night. "Where's the restroom?"

She pointed, my drowsy self rising. Not letting her come with me too, but maybe I should've.

I really should, cause the things that happened few moments after? Not more than 20 steps from Rosie... I didn't know what to make of it.

First, I saw him. Damien.

Saw him through the sliding door of what looked like a privately booked space. My feet going closer, wanting to be sure, then the words came.

“Are you serious?? You’re comparing that to THIS?”

“Local rug and expensive mattress??”

“Cheap fake wine and a Domaine de la Romanée-Conti???”

“Oh c'mon now please, say something else. Alma Halter can never be on the same standards as Isabella Laurent!"

Boom.

That pulled me closer. My name. The mention of my name and... the people mentioning it.

6 people. Two males on one side, one heavily speaking. A lady at the center, another lady, another lady and-

Him.

Him sitting there, relaxed. Arms around someone else, a lady, the third lady. Resting on her waist casually, holding her there as she sat on top of him.

Him. Damien.

My husband.

“Don’t say that again, man. Ella’s the best." The talking man said, "Welcome home, Ella!"

They all raised their glasses, "Cheers to Ella!”

“Cheers!” they clicked as they drank. Laughed. The two men. The two ladies. Him. The third lady seated right on top of him. Smiling.

Ella.

Ella!

That means she was-

"Ella," the name fell from my lips, breathless. "She's Ella."

His Ella.

She was back.