Back to Break my Dearests

I stared at the post, my finger hovering over the screen.

In my previous life, I spat out a slur and shared the post, setting the internet ablaze.

With the online abuse getting to her, Ivy Bell fled to the rooftop.

I was there when she stepped off the ledge.

My husband, Taylor Rogue, was present as well.

He cradled Ivy in her pool of blood and looked up at me.

His eyes narrowed dangerously.

Three months later, he came back to me, tender and attentive as before.

The moment I lowered my defenses, Taylor signed me into a psychiatric ward.

“You took the love of my life away. You can rot in hell for all I care!”

I spent the next three years in a cage.

Between forced medication and electroshock therapies, I eventually escaped by jumping off the roof.

I opened my eyes, and I was back.

Taking a deep breath, I tapped into the comments.

Hot comment #1: “Wake up, girl! You’re biting the hand that feeds you!”

Hot comment #2: “I can tell that the guy works in academia by his hands. They are calloused and without a wedding ring. Kinda creepy if you think about it.”

Hot comment #3: “Following! I hope the wife goes full savage!”

…

I took screenshots of the post, comments, and IP address.

After documenting everything, I archived the lot to an encrypted cloud folder.

Logging out of my social media, I used an alternative account to search for Ivy’s handle and follow her.

I made sure to subscribe to her online presence on every platform.

With that, I logged back into my social media.

Taylor’s message was pinned at the top.

“Abby, I need to be at an important faculty dinner tonight, so I’ll be home late. Don’t stay up for me.”

Lifting my chin, I stared at the pristine beige sofa in the middle of the room.

The sofa was replaced last week because Taylor, his brows furrowed, whined about an odd scent from the old fabric that bothered him.

Now that I thought about it, it was probably his guilty conscience at play—stains and smells he could never scrub away.

Time passed until the click of the turning lock echoed through the entryway.

Taylor returned home, carrying a faint stench of alcohol and an unfamiliar, sickly-sweet fragrance on him.

My presence in the living room took him by surprise.

“You’re still up.”

His voice dripped with tenderness.

The tone was identical to when he admitted me into a mental asylum.

As usual, I handed him a pair of slippers.

He took the slippers, his gaze shying away from mine. He made a beeline for the bathroom.

“I reek of booze. I’ll hop into the shower.”

The shower was running.

The bathroom door was left ajar.

Amid the steaming shower, I could see the fresh claw marks across his broad back.

I clenched the fabric of Taylor’s pajamas, my mind wandering back to his struggling days as a PhD student.

It took me three jobs to keep us afloat. At the time, he held me and said, “Abby, I’m going to give you the life you deserve.”

The shower turned off.

Taylor emerged from the bathroom drying his hair, water dripping from the ends. He plopped his phone down on the coffee table.

His screen lit up, notifying a new message.

“Professor Rogue, see you at our usual spot after class tomorrow.”

Ivy was saved as the contact.

Color drained from Taylor’s face, and he was quick to kill the screen.

He turned to me, his gaze shifting.

“It’s one of my kids in the department. She’s asking about her thesis.”

“Oh,” I responded offhandedly before grabbing the glass of water on the coffee table for a sip.