His Cruel Game, Her Final Word

My husband, Wesley, had a bizarre obsession with role-playing. In his favorite scenario, he’d stage a dramatic breakup, claiming he had to leave me for his career or some grand ideal.

Whenever he declared, “We’re over,” I’d play my part, begging him to stay through staged, heart-wrenching tears. The next day, he’d pull me into his arms, proclaiming his love for me had triumphed and that it was all just a test of our bond.

That all changed when my mother's aneurysm ruptured, and she needed an emergency surgery costing two hundred thousand dollars.

At the time, he was deep in character as a "struggling entrepreneur" saving for Series B funding. He’d just scoffed. “Every cent goes back into the company. You think I have that kind of cash just lying around for your mother?”

I watched helplessly as my mother took her last breath, all because we’d missed the optimal window for treatment.

At the reception after her funeral, he brought a young protégée from his office to enact his twisted breakup script once more, whispering, “Sloane, we have to let this go.”

This time, I didn't cry. I just met his gaze, turned on my heel, and walked away.

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1

At the funeral reception for my mother, my husband, Wesley Harrington, showed up with his young "protégée," Cassidy Barnes, and leaned in to whisper the familiar, toxic words in my ear.

"For the company, Sloane," he murmured, his voice laced with its usual, theatrical gravity, "we have to separate."

The same nauseating game.

The low hum of mourning guests mingled with the somber music filling the hall. Yet Wesley chose this moment, of all moments, to start his sick performance.

I stared at the face I had once been so completely obsessed with. For three years, every time he delivered his breakup monologue, I would follow the script—crying, pleading, my heart supposedly breaking—only to be pulled into his triumphant embrace the next morning as he declared it was all to prove our love was indestructible.

This, he claimed, was his twisted way of expressing love, and for three years, I had numbly gone along with the script.

But now, my mother was gone. In her final moments, she’d clutched my hand, her gaze fixed desperately on the ICU door, waiting for the man she’d loved like a son to see her one last time.

He never showed up.

Unlike all the times before, I didn’t beg or plead.

I simply answered, “Okay.”

He froze, clearly braced for the usual torrent of tears. My composure was so unnatural it was unnerving.

“My lawyer will be in touch,” I stated, my voice devoid of all emotion.

Cassidy Barnes sensed the abrupt shift in the atmosphere and instinctively clutched his arm, her expression a mask of confusion.

I met Wesley’s shocked gaze and said, enunciating each word, “The game is over, Wesley.”

The next morning, I ignored the dozens of missed calls and the barrage of furious texts from him.

[Sloane, stop this nonsense. Come home.]

[Last night didn't count. I take it all back.]

[How dare you ignore my calls? Who do you think you are?]

The most recent message had arrived ten minutes ago.