Chapter 2 Accustomed to Failure

Christine's P.O.V.

When my little angels finally stopped crying, I grabbed my laptop, placing it on my lap while I rocked their crib with my foot to ensure their sleep remained undisturbed.

My fingers flew across the keyboard with precision. I didn't just want a divorce—I needed Elliot to sign an agreement granting me full custody of the children. I didn't care if I didn't receive a single cent. I was even willing to forgo any financial benefits that came with the separation. I wanted nothing from him. He could keep his money, his massive house, and all his luxuries.

All I needed was to end this torment and take my babies far away from him. I doubted he even wanted them. He was a terrible father—what would he do with three children? How could he care for them when all he knew how to do was work and ignore us?

I was determined to deliver the papers to his office first thing in the morning. I hated visiting him there—each time, I was met with the same coldness and disdain, that familiar look of contempt, almost as if I were a beggar blocking his path. God, how I hated him. But I hated myself even more for having loved him so deeply when he had never deserved it.

I could already picture it—marching into his wretched company and slamming the papers onto his desk. This time, I wouldn't leave without his signature. There was no more room for delays.

After printing the final documents, I stacked them neatly and forced myself to try and sleep. But the hours dragged on, the ticking clock drilling into my ears. My mind refused to rest.

Just as my eyelids began to grow heavy, I heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway followed by the front door opening. My body tensed. Could it be? Had Elliot actually come home? Clutching the divorce papers, I crept down the stairs cautiously.

There he stood in the dining room, surveying the mess I had left behind. His hands rested in his pockets, his broad shoulders radiating quiet authority. He was restrained, imposing.

I didn't need to say anything—he already knew I was there. Slowly, he turned, his gaze sweeping over me from head to toe. One brow lifted, his lips pressing into a thin line. He clearly wasn't pleased with the state of the kitchen, but he didn't care enough to argue. That was how insignificant I was to him. Ever since we got married, his priority had been to avoid interacting with me, treating me like a mere piece of furniture in the house.

"Seems like you celebrated our anniversary in your own way," he remarked, his voice cold and devoid of emotion. He picked up the half-empty wine bottle and examined it with disdain. "Do you really think a date this trivial is a good enough reason to waste a perfectly fine wine?"

I didn't respond. Instead, I extended the divorce agreement papers toward him. His expression darkened as he glanced at the papers, his disgust evident—as if they were made of something foul and repugnant.

"Sign it, and this will all be over," I said, stepping closer when he made no move to take the document. "You don't like me. You never have. Here's your way out. This doesn't just free me from you—it frees you from me, just like you've always wanted."

"Who said I wanted a divorce?" he asked, finally grabbing the document. He didn't even bother pretending to read it. Instead, he tossed it onto the floor, letting it land among the shattered plates and ruined food. Then, to my horror, he ground his shoe over it as if he were stomping on dirt.

"What the hell are you doing?!" I shouted, my voice shaking with rage. He was trampling on my freedom, crushing my hopes of escaping this nightmare. I clenched my teeth so hard they ached, my throat burning with words I wasn't sure I could even articulate. But whatever came out would be a mix of fury and curses.

My eyes, glistening with unshed tears, met his indifferent gaze. He approached me with that unshakable calm of his, almost as if my anger meant nothing. His fingers pinched my chin, tilting my face up so that he could revel in the hatred burning in my eyes. His other hand curled around my waist—something he hadn't done in a long time. The last time we had been this close was when we conceived the triplets.

Damn it. I hated myself even more for blushing at his touch.

"What's the matter? Does it offend you that I ignore your needs? Can't stand that I don't acknowledge your… 'feelings'? Do you want to cry on my shoulder?" he mocked, his voice dripping with condescension. That sharp, sarcastic tone of his. God, how I despised it. How I despised the way he turned everything I cared about into a joke.

Elliot knew exactly how to wound me.

Blinded by rage, I shoved him with both hands, forcing distance between us, pushing away his heat, his scent—the damn cologne that still tingled in my nose.

"Are you insane, or do you just enjoy being cruel for fun?!" I screamed, feeling utterly pathetic for the tears spilling down my face. I hated that this always happened. Whenever I needed to be fierce and terrifying, I ended up crying instead, weakening the power of my words with emotions. Why couldn't I just scream and curse? Why did the tears have to make me look so vulnerable? That only made me angrier.

"Sign the damn divorce papers already," I growled. "I'm tired of these games. I'm tired of being a joke to you."

But he barely seemed to register my words. As if my outburst wasn't worth his attention, he turned and strolled toward the fireplace, leaving me there—seething, my rage caught in my throat. He carried himself with an air of practiced indifference, flaunting his control. Or, more likely, his utter lack of interest.

"How many times have you asked me for a divorce?" he mused, his voice laced with amusement. "Mind counting them for me? Because honestly, I've lost track." He smirked, the firelight flickering in his eyes. "You might also want to count how many times you've succeeded. Oh, wait—none. Good to see you've grown accustomed to failure."