After I can hear, my husband betrayed me

I touched the small, flesh-colored device behind my right ear. The doctor’s words from this morning still rang loudly in my head.

"Your hearing is returning, Violet. A full recovery is imminent. You will not need the aids for much longer."

Three years. Three years of muffled sounds, frustrating lip-reading, and relying on these tiny machines since the car crash. The crash where I threw my body in front of a speeding truck to save my fiancé, Dylan Miller.

I pushed open the heavy mahogany front door of our penthouse.

"Dylan?" I called out into the foyer.

No answer.

I kicked off my shoes and walked down the hallway toward the master bedroom. I wanted to see his face when I told him the news. I wanted to thank him for staying by my side through the darkest period of my life.

My hand reached for the brass knob.

A sound stopped me.

A low moan. Then a sharp, wet slap of skin against skin.

I froze. My fingers trembled as I turned the volume dial on my hearing aid up to the maximum.

"Fuck, Nancy," Dylan groaned from the other side of the wood. "Right there."

"You like my pussy?" Nancy’s voice drifted through the crack in the door. His secretary. My closest friend. "Better than your deaf little saint?"

My stomach dropped to the floor.

"That woman is completely deaf," Dylan sneered. "She doesn't hear a fucking thing we do. I could fuck your wet cunt on the couch while she reads a book, and she wouldn't know."

"You're terrible," Nancy giggled. The bedsprings squeaked in a rapid, violent rhythm. "Fuck me harder, Dylan. Ram it in."

"I got bored of fucking her a long time ago," he grunted. "She's just a charity case now. Spread your legs wider."

I pressed my hand over my mouth, biting down on my knuckle to keep from screaming. The man I sacrificed my life for. The man who promised to take care of me forever.

"Are you really never going to tell her?" Nancy asked, her voice catching on a loud gasp.

"Tell her what?"

"That you lied about the car crash."

The hallway spun violently around me.

"It was just a stupid test to see if she actually loved me," Dylan said, his voice straining with effort. "I paid that truck driver to swerve. I didn't expect the stupid bitch to actually jump in front of it and ruin her hearing."

"You ruined her," Nancy purred. "But at least I get to ride your cock."

"Shut up and take it," he snapped. "I'm going to cum inside you."

A lie.

My deafness, the endless surgeries, the pitying stares from his wealthy family. All a test. A sick, twisted game.

My knees buckled. I stumbled backward, my shoulder catching the edge of the glass console table.

The heavy porcelain vase tipped over.

It shattered against the hardwood floor with a deafening crash.

The wet, slapping noises inside the bedroom stopped instantly.

"What was that?" Nancy asked, panic replacing her pleasure.

"Stay here," Dylan ordered.

My legs refused to move. Shards of porcelain dug into my bare knees, but I felt absolutely nothing. I stared at the bedroom door, waiting for the nightmare to end.

It swung open.

Dylan stood there, hastily buckling his leather belt. His chest was flushed, slick with sweat. He stared down at me, his eyes wide, flashing from the broken vase to my trembling hands.

Nancy appeared behind him, clutching a white silk sheet over her bare breasts. Her messy blonde hair stuck to her sweaty neck.

"Violet!" Nancy gasped. She pushed past Dylan and dropped to her knees beside me. "Oh my god, are you hurt?"

Her face twisted into a mask of perfect, angelic concern. She reached out, her manicured fingers gently brushing the hair out of my eyes.

"Dylan, help me get her up," Nancy said, her voice laced with fake worry. "She must have tripped. Poor thing."

Dylan didn't move. He just stared at my ears.

"She didn't hear anything," he muttered, more to himself than to us. "Her aids are probably off."

"Let's get you to the couch, sweetie," Nancy cooed.

She hooked her arms under my armpits and hauled me upward. I let her pull me, my body limp, my brain short-circuiting.

As I stood, Nancy leaned in close. Her lips brushed the shell of my ear, right over the tiny microphone of my hearing aid.

"You pathetic, broken retard," she whispered, a venomous smile plastered on her face. "He's mine."

She pulled back, patting my shoulder affectionately.

I stared at her. The woman who brought me coffee every Tuesday. The woman who held my hand in the waiting room during my last surgery.

She thought I was deaf. She thought I was completely oblivious.

"I'll get a broom," Dylan said, finally snapping out of his daze. "Violet, go sit down."

He pointed toward the living room, using the exaggerated hand gestures he always used when he thought I failed to read his lips.

I didn't move. I just looked at the two of them.

My hearing was back. And the first thing I heard was the destruction of my entire life.

"Did you cut yourself, Violet?" Nancy asked loudly, pointing to a small scratch on my shin.

I looked down at the blood. Then I looked back up at Dylan.

"No," I said, my voice eerily calm.

Dylan's jaw tightened. "Why are you home early?"

I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing against the doctor's note. The note I had rushed home to show him.

"My appointment finished early," I replied.

"You should watch where you're walking," he scolded, stepping over the shattered porcelain. "You could have really hurt yourself."

He didn't care. He never cared.

Nancy smirked, adjusting the sheet around her waist. "I'll go get dressed, Mr. Miller. Since Violet is home, I should probably head back to the office."

Mr. Miller. They were playing their roles again. Boss and secretary. Fiancé and disabled burden.

"Yeah," Dylan said, running a hand through his messy hair. "I'll see you tomorrow, Nancy."

Nancy turned to me, offering one last sympathetic pout. "Take care of yourself, Violet. Call me if you need anything."

She walked back into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.

Dylan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm going to call housekeeping to clean this up. Go to the kitchen and get a glass of water."

He turned his back on me, pulling his phone from his pocket.

I stood in the hallway, the pieces of the broken vase scattered around my feet. The pain in my chest was sharper than any physical wound.

Three years of my life stolen. Given away for a lie.

I reached up and touched my hearing aid again. I didn't turn it off. I wanted to hear every single lie he told from now on.

"Dylan," I called out.

He stopped, glancing over his shoulder. "What?"

"We need to talk about the wedding."

"Later," he dismissed, walking away. "I have a headache."

I watched his retreating back. Yes, we would talk later.

And he would pay for every single second he stole from me.