Chapter 2: It's Over

Daphne's POV 

The hallway of the luxury hotel was silent, too clean, too still—like the air was holding its breath.

I followed the receptionist’s directions, my heels clicking softly against the marble floor. My heart was beating as though it wanted to break out of my ribcage.

I held my small purse close, not for protection, but for comfort. Every step brought me closer to something she never imagined doing.

Room 807.

I raised my hand to knock, but before I could, the door creaked open from inside.

Warm light spilled out, illuminating a tall figure leaning on the edge of the doorway. His tie was loose, his blazer abandoned somewhere behind him. A half-finished drink hung from his fingers.

His eyes were slightly unfocused, but intense.

“You’re... the girl?” he asked, voice deep and low, thick with drink.

My throat went dry. I only managed a stiff nod.

He stepped aside wordlessly, letting me in. The room smelled of cologne and whiskey. The lights were dimmed to a moody hue, and the curtains were drawn. It felt like a different world—rich, sensual, secretive.

I took one uncertain step forward when he suddenly spoke.

“You look… strangely familiar.”

My breath caught.

“I—I don’t think we’ve met before” I whispered.

“No,” he murmured, drawing closer. “But your face is familiar.”

“But the room is dark, you can't even see my face.” I said.

He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he reached out gently and tucked a stray curl behind my ear, his touch surprisingly tender for someone so intoxicated. 

His face was just a shadow in the low light, but his scent—clean, masculine, and rich—stirred something strange in me. Or was it his touch? It's been months since I was touched.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said hoarsely, as if shaking off the thought. “Just… stay.”

What happened next blurred into motion and heat.

He was firm, but not cruel. Even drunk, he was careful with me—his hands steady, his words low. We didn’t speak again. No names. Nothing at all.

And when it was over, he lay still, breathing softly beside me.

In the early hours of the morning, I rose quietly, slipping off the bed, my legs shaking. I ran a quick shower and wore back my clothes. 

I must head back home before he wakes up. My cheeks burned with a mix of guilt and exhaustion. I looked at him—still asleep, his face turned away in the dim light—and then to the thick envelope sitting on the nightstand.

Ten thousand dollars.

I picked it up with trembling fingers, shoved it into my purse, and tiptoed out of the room without a backward glance.

---

By the time I reached the hospital, the sun was rising.

The receptionist gave me a tired smile as I placed the cash on the counter.

“This is not the full amount,” I whispered. “But please—use it to begin treatment. I’ll find the rest, I promise.”

The woman nodded and accepted the money. “It’s a good start. We’ll inform the doctor.”

I exhaled, relief crashing through my chest. For the first time in days, there was a silver of hope.

---

Back at home, the hope quickly shriveled.

Jonah was waiting by the door, beer in hand, his shirt wrinkled and stained from last night. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw twitching.

“Where the hell were you, Daphne?” he demanded.

I stiffened. “I told you. I had to take care of something.”

“Don’t play me, Daphne. You didn’t come home all night.”

“I was at the hospital—”

“Liar!” he yelled, slamming the beer bottle against the wall. Glass shattered near my feet. “You out there spreading your legs for money now? You whore!”

I froze. My face turned pale, then red.

“I needed that money to pay for Mother's surgery!” I shouted. “And what have you done, Jonah? When was the last time you brought a penny into this house?”

He stormed toward me. “You calling me useless now?”

“You are!” I screamed, throwing caution to the wind. “You’re a parasite! I slave at the factory seven days a week, while you drink and gamble. You steal from me, hit me, blame me—and now, when I finally do something to save Mama’s life, you accuse me of being a whore?”

His hand lashed out, striking me across the face.

The sting was sharp, but not as sharp as the fire that lit in me chest. I didn’t cry neither did I cower. I stood tall, and resolved that I've had enough of this madness.

“That’s it,” I said coldly, pulling the ring off my finger. “I’m done.”

“You're done with what? I'm not done talking.” 

“I'm not going to listen to you any longer. I'm done with this fucking marriage!”

“W-what?”

“You heard me.” I threw the ring at his chest. “This sham of a marriage is over. You’re not my husband. You’re a mistake I survived. I regret wasting my time with you for two whole years. I should have listened to my mother when she warned me earlier.” I said bitterly.

“Daphne, let's sort this out amiably. You can't say that. You know I'm trying to change. I'm working on it. Just give me sometime…”

“I don't have anytime to spare. While I stay here and argue with you all day, my mother is slowly dying in the hospital and you didn't give a flying fuck about it!”

“Daphne please…”

While he ranted, I grabbed my bag from the corner, threw a few clothes inside, snatched my mother’s framed photo off the table, and headed for the door.

“You're just bluffing, Daphne. You can't walk out of that door.” He threatened.

“Well, watch me.”

“Daphne, wait—”

I didn’t.

I walked out into the morning air, bruised, broken, but free. And for the first time in years, I felt the weight lift from my shoulders.

Jonah hadn't always been like this. We started out as childhood sweethearts and when he asked me to marry him, I ran into his arms, ignoring my mothers warnings.

Two months into our marriage, he showed me his true colours. I realised that I had gotten married to an alcohol addict, gambler and lots more. I had endured this whole time, but not anymore.

I didn’t know where I would go, how I would find the rest of the money, or what tomorrow would bring.

But one thing was certain.

I wasn’t going back.