The DON's Princess

Sophia's Point of View

"I could hear it." The sound of my husband pleasuring another woman—her loud, shameless moans and the rhythmic pounding of the bed against the floor. This wasn’t the first time, yet every time he did it, it felt like my heart was being ripped from my chest. 

 

"Ma'am!" Beatrice's voice jolted me out of my trance. I turned to her, dazed. "Your hands, ma’am, they’re burning!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide with alarm.  

Only then did the pain register. "Ouch!" I winced, yanking my hands away from the flames.  

"Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ll handle this," Beatrice offered quickly, taking over at the stove. I nodded numbly and opened the first cabinet to retrieve a bandage for my hand. The pain was nothing compared to the ache inside me.  

When Beatrice finished, she handed me the tray. Breakfast for my husband and his mistress—a command he barked every morning without fail, brushing past me on his way to the bedroom.  

With a heavy heart, I took the tray and made my way upstairs. By now, the sounds had stopped. I knew what I’d find: the two of them, exhausted and sprawled on my matrimonial bed.  

"Come in, Sophia," he called out the moment I reached the door.  

I obeyed, stepping inside and trying not to notice the naked woman tangled in the sheets. But my eyes betrayed me—that was all I could see. Tears welled up, threatening to spill over.  

I set the tray gently on the bedside table. He took a bite, and the next moment, the crash of the plate shattering on the floor filled the room.  

"You didn’t make this!" he yelled, his face contorted in anger. "How many times have I told you I only eat food made by your hands?"  

He continued hurling insults. "You incompetent..."  

I stood there, swallowing my tears, as his words blurred into the background. Three years. Three long years I had endured this.  

But today was different. The call from my father’s lawyer replayed in my mind "It’s all yours." 

The house my husband so proudly claimed as his. The company his family ruled with arrogance. It was all mine.  

For years, I thought I had nothing. I believed I owed them my gratitude for taking me in after my father’s death. But I had it wrong—it was they who owed me.

My father’s wealth was the foundation of their entire existence, the reason their family name carried any weight at all.  

"Are you going to say anything?" my husband barked, pulling me back to the present.  

He stood, demanding an apology, his mistress watching with smug amusement. "Look at me and apologize to me and my guest!" he commanded, his voice dripping with entitlement.  

I raised my head to meet his gaze. There was a time when I loved this man, when I clung to the hope that he could change, that things could get better. But now, it was painfully clear—he had nothing left to offer me.  

"I’m listening," he demanded my submission.  

But I wasn’t going to give it to him. Not this time. Not anymore.  

"John," I said, my voice cracking slightly, "I want a divorce."    

“What?” he exclaimed, his voice laced with disbelief. “What did you just say?” he asked, as though daring me to repeat myself.  

"I... want a divorce," I stuttered.  My heart pounded in my chest as those words left my mouth.

I paused watching his expression and an uproar of laughter burst from his lips. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sophia,” he said, shaking his head. “If this is one of your sad attempts at attention, I don’t have time for it. Apologize and leave now,” he demanded, laying back on the bed and trying to cuddle up with the woman beside him.  

I stood firm, My heart hammering in my chest, my fingers slick with sweat. "This is not an attempt to get your attention. I don’t want any of it. All I want is a divorce," I declared.  

John turned to stare at me, his eyes narrowing as though trying to read me.  

"I mean it, John," I said firmly.  

"You must be insane," he spat, his eyes flickering to my injured hands. "That little injury on your hand must have messed with your brain."  

His words didn’t faze me—I was used to them by now.  

Without another word, I turned on my heel and rushed out of the room, heading straight to my bedroom. There, tucked away in a drawer, were the divorce papers my lawyer had prepared a week ago. I had been waiting for the perfect opportunity to serve them to him, and there was no better time than now.  

I walked back into the room, slamming the papers on the bed. "Here!" I snapped as the papers landed with a loud thud. "I’ve made it easy for you. Just sign them." I didn’t let my voice crack.  

John’s brows furrowed, and the smug smile he had been wearing quickly changed into a look of irritation. "What is this?" he asked, snatching up the papers and skimming through them. His face twisted with rage as he threw them aside. "Are you mad?" he growled, launching at me.  

I stepped back, but he was off the bed and closing the distance between us in a heartbeat. His hand shot out, clamping around my neck.  

"You think you can divorce me?" he yelled, his grip tightening and as it began to cut off my air.  

Panic surged through me as I clawed at his hands, desperately trying to free myself. I began to feel weak and my vision began to blur, a tear drop fell from my eyes as I was about to give up but at that moment a thought flashed through my mind: this had to end. I couldn’t let him win, not this time, not anymore.  

Summoning every ounce of strength I had left, I swung my fist. My knuckles connected with his face, slamming into his cheekbone with a sharp crack. His head snapped to the side, and the force of the punch sent him staggering back.

 His grip on my neck loosened, causing me to stumble backward, nearly losing my balance. I straightened myself, my heart racing as I felt satisfied by my little victory. I had never fought back before, and it felt so good.  

A small smile crept onto my face as I focused my gaze on him, watching as he adjusted too. As soon as he was straight and our eyes met, my heart raced faster. His blazing eyes gave off a dark, murderous expression. His lips had a small cut, from which blood trickled out. He slowly wiped the cut with his thumb, his fingers lingering on the blood as if internalizing what had just happened.  

“Did you just hit me?” he asked, his voice low and deadly. His stare was ice-cold, making my heart sink like a stone.  

Panic shot through me as I realized what I had done. John was a psychopath, and punching him right now might have been a big mistake.  

Without thinking, I turned on my heels, ready to run, but before I could take a single step, his fingers tangled in my hair, yanking me back with a painful jerk.  

"You’re going to regret this, Sophia," he hissed.