DON'T BEG ME NOW, MR. ARMSTRONG

He was late. Again. 

My husband had reserved a seat for us at one of the most expensive restaurants in the city for my birthday. 

He had his secretary send me the reservation spot and everything I needed to know, and he said he’ll meet me here. But it had been an hour—I checked my watch again—sorry, an hour and ten minutes, but had not yet arrived. 

To some extent, I wondered why I was surprised. He was always late to activities that required us to spend time together. And that was if he even showed up at all. 

The waiter approached me again. “Ma’am, it’s been an hour. If you don’t order something, you’ll have to leave.”

I gave her a tight-lipped smile. “I will.” I tugged on my bracelet chain. “I will… just ten more minutes. The person’s gonna be here soon, I promise.” 

I purposely didn't tell her I was waiting for my husband. The pitiful looks I’d received for the last thirty minutes were enough, I didn’t need more. 

“Ma’am—”

“Leave us.”

A voice cut her off. The voice I’d been waiting to hear all night. My husband. 

Relief flooded my veins as I looked up at him, but it was instantly gone as I saw the woman by his side. 

His secretary, Madeline. 

The woman he'd chosen to shove into our lives like she’d always been there. She'd started working for him three months ago, and since then, my life had become a waking nightmare, even worse than it was before. 

She was always around him. At work, outside of work… everywhere. She even lived with us, and I feared that the only difference between her and me was that she didn't sleep with him—not in the same room, at least—and she wasn't married to him, though sometimes I felt like she was his wife, instead of me. 

Stunned, my eyes on her, I almost missed when he pulled a chair for her, and had a waiter get one from another table for himself, placing it beside hers. 

She caught me staring at the action, and I could've sworn that her lips lifted. 

I blinked away from her, turning to my husband. “You’re late,” I whispered.

He gave me a hard stare. “Would you rather I didn’t show up at all?”

I shook my head. 

Beggars couldn't be choosers, after all. 

The server came over to ask for our orders, and I read mine off to him, then glanced at my husband. 

“The wagyu for the lady. Medium rare... And the lobster tail.”

He didn’t even have to look to know what she wanted, but I was sure that if I'd asked him my favorite food, he wouldn’t have known. 

“You brought her,” I mentioned after a moment of silence, “Why?”

“Why?” he drawled. “She spent hours in the office, laboring for my business, and when it was time to go, her car broke down. I’m not heartless like you, Joan. I offered her a ride. And after being so hardworking,” he gave me a dirty look. “She must’ve been hungry, which is why I brought her here.”

My heart ached uncomfortably, and I stared down at the napkin on my lap. “But it’s my birthday dinner.”

Madeline gasped softly. “Oh no. Dean didn’t mention anything about a birthday. I’m not intruding, am I?” she said it sympathetically, but I could hear the mocking in her tone. 

But of course, my husband missed it, glaring at me like I was wrong for making her feel like she was intruding. She was. “No, you aren’t. Joan has had, and will have more birthdays. I’m sure she can be less selfish this one time.”

My eyes watered. 

Was I selfish for wanting time alone with my husband? I mean, I was sorry that she hadn’t eaten, but she could’ve gone home instead. Our house staff would’ve made something for her in minutes. 

“But I feel bad now, Dean,” she cooed, her long fingers going to rest on my husband’s arm. He didn’t push her away. “You could’ve told me it was her birthday so I could get her a present. You got her a present, though, right?” 

I knew he hadn’t, but for some reason, hope blossomed in my chest that maybe... just maybe, he had gotten me something. 

With a look at him, those hopes were instantly crushed. Even further, when he said, “I’ve given her more than she needs, even though she doesn’t deserve it. That should be enough for her.”

A tear threatened to fall, but I blinked it away. 

His secretary pouted. And then she did something I would've never expected. 

She reached over the table and grabbed my hand. “You have to tell me what you like now. I have to get you something, Joan, since your husband doesn’t care.”

I tensed at the contact. “You don’t have to bother. I have enough, as Dean said.”

I tried to pull my hand away, but she tightened her grip. “I’m not taking no for an answer, Joan. I must get you something.” 

I wondered who she was trying to impress, me? Or my husband? If it was the latter, she didn’t have to try hard because it was obvious he already favored her.

I pulled harder. “I said it’s—”

“Stop wasting your time, Madeline. She wouldn’t appreciate it, anyway,” my husband interrupted. 

He tapped her arm twice, and she relented, returning to his side like a faithful dog.

I almost scoffed at that, but I couldn’t, because I’d been pulling my hand back when she left me, which made me fall back into my chair with force. In the process, I’d also knocked down the glass of water I’d been drinking, and the glass went crashing on the ground, scattering into tiny pieces. 

When I glanced up, I noticed a few eyes darting to our table, and it only fueled my embarrassment. 

“Jesus Christ,” Dean muttered. “Can you do any fucking thing right?”

My face flamed. “I’m sorry.”

Tears blurred my vision as I bent over to pick the broken shards from the ground. 

“What the hell are you doing?” 

I leaned up to answer him. But then the table shifted, hitting me smack in the forehead, sending a sharp pain ringing through my head. 

I touched my forehead, and when I pulled my fingers back, there was blood on them.

My blood.

“Why do you keep embarrassing me?” Dean growled. “You want everyone to think my wife is a miserly cleaner?”

 I struggled, but I eventually managed to sit upright again. Disgust couldn’t classify the look on my husband’s face. “N—no. I was just… I—”

“That’s enough,” he cut me off. Then he pushed an envelope toward me which I hadn't noticed earlier. “I thought we’d have one last dinner before you leave, but you aren’t worth it. Sign this.”

One last dinner? Leave? What did he mean?

With shaky, blood-stained fingers, I reached forward and took the envelope from the table. 

I began to take out the papers inside, but one glance at the header had the envelope dropping from my hand. 

“D—divorce agreement?” My voice shook. Or maybe it was my body. I couldn’t tell. “Y—you want a divorce?” 

Annoyance flashed in his eyes. “Do I have to spell it out to you? I’ve signed my part. You sign yours, and you can walk out of my life for good.”

“You can’t be serious,” I whispered. Then my eyes flicked to the woman by his side, whose excitement was barely contained. “Is it because of her?”

“Don’t blame someone else for your shortcomings, Joan. It has nothing to do with Madeline,” he stated casually. “You were simply a burden I got tired of carrying.”

My heart thudded. 

Me. A burden. 

If anything could’ve gotten to me, it was those words. 

I grew up feeling like I was a burden to my parents, and they never failed to remind me of it every chance they got. My mom had me when they were both just eighteen, and as a result, both their parents disowned them. Every day of my life, then, they made me feel like it was my fault that I was born. So no, the last thing I wanted was to be seen as a burden to someone else who was supposed to love me. 

My final act of love was going to be letting him go. 

Before I could tell him that I’d sign them, he stood alongside his escort. “I expect you to sign them within a day. I’d like to get this done with as soon as possible.” His eyes grazed around my face, and then he took out a handkerchief from his breast pocket and placed it on the table. "Clean up yourself. You look pitiful." 

With that, he turned and left. 

I watched them walk through the door, and I kept looking until I was sure they were gone. 

Then, I let my tears fall. 

Dean casually took out my heart and crushed it like it was nothing. And it didn’t start today. 

We’d been married for five years, and I knew when he stopped loving me. It was long before our marriage, and I didn’t know why he still married me. What I knew was that over the past five years, he’d been taking away pieces of my heart, and today, he took out the last piece and crushed it under his feet. There was nothing left where it was anymore. 

I took out a pen from my purse and signed the papers. In my blood. In ink. 

Today wasn’t just my birthday; it was the day the old me had died.