The Ring in the Biohazard Bin

When I returned to the mansion on Lake Washington, I silently began to pack.

The walk-in closet was overflowing with what were ostensibly my possessions, though Luther had bought nearly all of them.

He claimed my "cheap taste" embarrassed him, so he'd bought mountains of Hermès bags and commissioned a wardrobe of couture gowns.

I’d be lying if I said I was never moved.

But every time I showed a hint of joy in a new dress, Luther would ruthlessly shatter the fantasy.

He would knit his brows, his tone mocking.

"People like you have no class. So easily bought."

"No wonder you'd crawl into my bed without a shred of decency. That dress is worth ten years of your pathetic salary, isn't it?"

"How does it feel, spending my money? Must be nice, huh?"

And just like that, the flicker of joy would be extinguished.

It's not that I didn't try to explain, but Luther refused to believe me. He had his narrative, and no matter what I said, he twisted it into another lie, another manipulation.

Now, I left all those expensive bags and gowns behind, erasing any trace that I'd ever been there.

I only took a few casual outfits I had bought myself and my documents.

As I carried my suitcase downstairs, I came face-to-face with Luther, who had just walked in.

Ivy was clinging to his arm, holding several shopping bags from luxury brands, chattering away.

"Luther, the food at that restaurant was divine. We have to go again."

Luther murmured a noncommittal reply, his gaze landing on the suitcase in my hand. He immediately frowned.

"Where are you going this late?"

I held my suitcase and told him the truth.

"I'm divorcing you. You should have received the lawyer's letter. So, I'm moving out."

Luther's face darkened.

He strode over, ripped the suitcase from my grasp, and slammed it on the floor. "Are you done with this charade?" he yelled.

"The Harrison home isn't a hotel you can check in and out of! If word of this gets out, the stock will tank. Can you take responsibility for that?"

"Who approved this divorce? Don't push me, Cathy!"

I looked at his furious face and, inexplicably, wanted to laugh. Even now, he thought this was just another ploy for his attention.

Ivy, on the other hand, was gloating, a smirk she couldn't suppress playing on her lips.

"Luther, if she wants to go, just let her," she whined, trying to charm him. "It's not like our family needs her. The air will be so much fresher once she's gone."

I gave Ivy a cool look. As Luther's adopted sister, her behavior was far too familiar.

The irony was thick enough to choke on. She was the one with the sick, possessive obsession that went far beyond sisterly affection, yet Luther was blind to it, accusing everyone else of having a dirty mind.

I turned to grab my suitcase, but Luther seized my wrist.

He stared straight at me, his eyes blazing.

For once, he ignored Ivy, dragging me straight upstairs.

"Let go of me!" I struggled.

The door slammed shut. He shoved me onto the bed, his body pinning me down.

He bit my ear, his voice a low, husky growl.

"Isn't this what you wanted?"

My mind went blank.

I suddenly remembered a trip to Napa Valley I had carefully planned shortly after we were married.

He didn't like me; he slept in the guest room and barely acknowledged me in the halls. But we were legally married, and I didn't want the cold war to continue, so I hoped the trip might bridge the gap between us.

The moonlight was stunning that night, and for a fleeting moment, the way Luther looked at me was scorching. I thought he was starting to feel something, so I boldly moved closer, only for him to shove me away in disgust.

"Is this all you have? Besides your body, what else can you offer?"

I crumpled to the floor as shame and devastation washed over me, tears streaming down my face.

Luther stared at me for a long time, then silently wrapped me in his suit jacket and scooped me into his arms, carrying me back to the bedroom.

That night, he stayed. He was clumsy, yet surprisingly gentle.

For a moment, it felt like things were finally moving in the right direction. Then Ivy called.

On the other end of the line, she threatened suicide, crying about how manipulative I was.

"Have you forgotten how she set you up?" Ivy sobbed into the phone. "The scandal? How you became a laughingstock? And now you're being nice to her? Whose side are you on? Don't tell me you're actually falling for a woman like that. It's pathetic!"

Those words extinguished the spark of guilt he had begun to feel.

He remembered the endless jokes at his expense, and his hatred for me returned, fiercer than before.

The tenderness we'd shared evaporated, replaced by a violent storm.

Even as I cried out in pain, he remained impassive, repeatedly asking me:

"Stop pretending. Isn't this what you wanted when you crawled into my bed?"

And now, he wanted to humiliate me like that again?