Our Destructive Game Ends With Her

I flinched, and the broken porcelain cut my wrist, immediately drawing blood.

A flicker of frustration crossed my husband Philip Mumford's face. He looked exhausted, as though he'd had enough of this.

He stared at me for a few seconds before striding over. Without a word, he grabbed me and shoved me into the bathtub.

The ice-cold water hit me like a shock. The second I realized what he was doing, I panicked and started struggling.

"Philip! I'm preg—"

"Shut up!" he yelled, cutting me off.

He roughly pinned my wrists above my head and stared down at me for two seconds. His eyes were filled with disgust.

"You drugged me just to get me to sleep with you, didn't you? Haven't I done enough for you?"

I froze in disbelief, overwhelmed by the sheer absurdity of it.

Somehow, I found the strength to wrench myself free. I grabbed whatever was within reach and hurled it at him like a madwoman. "Get out! Get the hell out!"

Philip didn't even try to dodge. He just stood there, taking it, as if he had long since grown used to my outbursts.

When I'd finally let it all out, he lifted a hand and wiped away the blood running down his temple. His expression was cold and indifferent.

"I've recovered the videos you secretly filmed," he said flatly. "Whether you send them to the press or put them up on billboards across town, that's up to you.

"The files you've been collecting to use against me are on the USB drive on the desk. Do whatever you want with them."

He knew I wasn't going to let this go, so he simply laid out every way I could get back at him. At least those were consequences he could live with.

He was afraid of me.

The realization hit me so hard that I laughed through my tears.

"Philip, why won't you divorce me?" I asked.

He stopped at the door and glanced back, a mocking laugh escaping him.

"Would you even agree to that? Janet Stewart, I guess I'm stuck with you for life."

Whatever hope I had left shattered completely in that moment.

"Just leave Vivian alone. I'm begging you," Philip said coldly.

The door slammed shut, leaving me dazed for a long time afterward.

That was the third time I'd heard him beg.

The first time was when he was 18.

He stood up to his family and took a beating across the back until he was bleeding. But he just wiped the blood from his mouth and said to his father, "I won't marry anyone except Janet. I'm begging you—throw me out of the family or beat me to death. I don't care what you choose."

The second time was when I developed postpartum depression. He rushed to the rooftop and pulled me into his arms just as I'd taken one foot over the edge. His whole body was shaking.

"We can have another baby! Please, I'm begging you, don't leave me!" he pleaded. "If you jump, I'm jumping right behind you!"

And this was the third time. Only this time, he was begging me to let his mistress go.

A faint, bitter smile tugged at my lips. Tears mixed with blood and dripped into the bathwater.

With trembling hands, I reached for my phone but accidentally hit the emergency contact.

I expected no one to answer, just like always.

But just as I was about to hang up, Vivian Taylor's voice came through the phone, catching me off guard.

"Philip, you'll get sick if you take a cold shower. Let me help you."

I could hear Philip's muffled voice over the sound of running water in the background. "No. I'm afraid I'll hurt you and the baby."

Vivian paused for a moment, her voice carrying a taunting edge. "Then why don't you go find Janet?"