Love Fades on the Peak

In the second year of our marriage, which Brett Mason had secured through relentless means, he brought home his latest conquest—a stunning blonde.

As the door swung shut, he ran his fingers through her silky hair, flashing me a smug, triumphant grin. "Wanna join us? You might learn a thing or two about not being such a dead fish."

I could still recall how he once adored my hair, claiming that just stroking it would melt away his deepest worries.

It turned out any woman could serve that purpose.

In that instant, a profound sense of release washed over me.

I retrieved the divorce agreement I'd stashed away in a drawer and handed it to him. "Sign it, and I'll make room for her."

My days were numbered, and I had no intention of wasting what little time remained entangled in his resentment.

...

From the moment I presented the divorce papers, Brett Mason's face darkened like a gathering storm.

Sylvie Green, nestled in his arms, recoiled at his sudden intensity, her fingers tightening around her bag as she slipped out of the room.

Now, it was just the two of us, the air thick with tension.

Without warning, he closed the distance in swift strides, his hand shooting out to seize my chin in a vise-like grip.

Pinning me against the cold wall, he growled, "Why is it always you who gets to call it quits?"

I held my tongue, my gaze locked on his furious eyes, where my reflection stared back.

I was pale, gaunt, and utterly drained, a far cry from the vibrant young woman he'd just paraded in.

In the tense silence, he abruptly flung the agreement aside and lunged, his lips crashing against mine in a savage bite. "I've always known it. You're far crueler than I could ever be!"

But it wasn't cruelty. I simply couldn't afford to linger in this toxic cycle any longer.

"Brett, stop!" I struggled, pushing against his chest.

But he lifted me off my feet and tossed me onto the sofa like discarded luggage, his body weight pinning me down without mercy.

My muffled cries and desperate pleas dissolved into the ether as he overpowered me with ruthless force.

Hot tears streamed down my cheeks, cooling as they traced paths of despair. Memories from our happier past surged, dragging me into an abyss.

A sharp pain lanced through my chest, stealing my breath, while nausea roiled in my gut like a violent storm.

His ragged breaths merged with echoes from a nightmare past. As the confusion peaked, he leaned closer, his palm gently covering my eyes as he kissed away the saline trails.

"Erika..." he murmured, his voice so soft it might have been an illusion.

In a moment of despair, I shoved him away with what strength I had left and scrambled to the bed's edge, retching violently.

"Always the same damn reaction," he scoffed, his desire evaporating as he dressed methodically.

Moonlight streamed through the window. His gaze drifted to some distant point, and a bitter chuckle escaped him.

Towering over me, he delivered his parting shot with biting sarcasm. "I'm no longer that pathetic dog you toyed with back then. No matter how much you despise me, you'll endure it."

He could never understand that it wasn't despise.

I was gravely ill.

...

The roar of his car's engine faded into the night.

I dragged myself up, gathering my scattered clothes, when my phone tumbled from a pocket, its screen glowing.

There was a missed call from moments ago. It was Stanley Allen.

Once I'd dressed, I dialed him back.

He answered the call immediately, his voice urgent. "What happened? I thought you collapsed from another episode."

"It's not that severe," I replied, forcing a weak smile as I gazed at the empty, moonlit courtyard, where cobblestones gleamed coldly.

Stanley drew in a sharp breath, his frustration barely contained. "I'm your doctor. You've delayed treatment for two years. Surgery is critical now. Brett needs to..."

"He doesn't want to know," I interrupted, my grip tightening on the phone, my voice strained.

He'd made it clear the other day that anything about me was not his concern.

"This is on me," Stanley sighed, laden with guilt. "If I hadn't urged you to return and seek treatment here, things with him wouldn't have spiraled like this."

"It's not your fault," I snuffled, my eyes stinging as I fought back tears. "This rift between us is inevitable. Don't worry. I'll handle the treatment soon."

"And the therapy sessions," he insisted.

I agreed and ended the call, my eyes drifting to a spot on the bookshelf.

It was the small, dusty box I'd gifted Brett before my departure five years ago. It held letters I'd penned and a blank diary for him to fill.

I could still recall him holding me close, his tone sulky. "One entry per day for a whole year?"

"Too hard?" I'd teased, tilting my head.

He'd chuckled, burying his face in my hair. "Not really. I'm just worried that a diary simply can't contain all the love and longing I have for you."