I Faked An Injury To Escape My Abusive Billionaire Husband. But The Er Doctor Just Revealed A Dark Secret About My Husband’s First Wife. How Do I Go Back To That House Now?
A Gilded Cage
He told everyone he was flying out of state for business. But in the dead of night, my neighbor hammered on my door, his face a mask of panic, insisting I see who was sitting casually in his living room.
My left cheek burned, but my heart was a raging inferno this morning. Preston had just struck me across the face all because of a shirt collar he deemed insufficiently crisp. Even under a microscope, I swear that shirt was pressed to perfection.
He stood there glaring at me with the same condescending eyes he used on his subordinates at the office while adjusting the lapels of his designer suit, a suit that probably cost more than a decent used car. It’s funny, isn’t it? A man can look so dignified and commanding in tailored clothes, yet his behavior can be more primitive than a caveman fighting over a piece of meat,.
I could only look down, cupping my throbbing cheek and fighting back tears that refused to fall, having been wrung dry too many times before. If you saw Preston out in the world, you’d probably ask for his autograph or a selfie. He was the very definition of a dream man for the PTA moms and the role model for all the dads on the block.
He was a successful real estate developer, a frequent donor to the local youth center, and always offered a charming smile to the security guard at our gated community’s entrance. His public image was spotless, gleaming, and flawless, just like the marble floors of our sprawling mansion. But no one knew that behind the high walls of our home, Preston transformed into a cruel prison warden.
He had a set of nonsensical rules that had to be obeyed. If I deviated even slightly, his hands moved far faster than his mouth. Sometimes I thought he should have been a professional fighter instead of a businessman,.
It’s a shame his talent for hitting was reserved only for his wife. This house felt more like an enemy fortress than a comfortable home. There were security cameras in every corner except the bathrooms, and the high fence was topped with menacing spikes.
The guard at the front gate was more loyal to Preston than a bloodhound. It was impossible for me to even think about running out the gate with a suitcase. My phone was inspected every night as if I were a secret agent about to sell state secrets.
I was trapped, completely and utterly trapped in this cold, gilded cage. I tried once confiding in a neighbor, but Preston skillfully twisted the facts. He told her I was under a lot of stress and prone to hallucinations.
The Escape Plan
Brilliant, wasn’t it? Suddenly I was the crazy one in everyone else’s eyes. I realized that if I continued to stay silent and submissive, my name would be carved on a tombstone by next year.
My mind started racing, searching for a way out, not a physical escape because I knew I couldn’t run a 100 yards without sounding like an asthmatic, let alone outrun Preston. I needed a way to leave this house legitimately in front of a crowd and leave Preston utterly powerless. I needed witnesses,.
I needed a neutral territory where Preston’s authority meant nothing. The only place that came to mind was a hospital. Yes, a hospital, a place for the sick. But to me, it looked like a five-star hotel offering the sweet promise of freedom.
Preston had one major weakness, and it wasn’t kryptonite like in the superhero movies. His weakness was his reputation. He was terrified of people discovering his true rotten self.
He was afraid of being seen as a failed husband, as a brute, as an immoral man. That’s why he never hit me anywhere that would be visible when I was fully clothed. He was clever but devious.
That’s why I had to create a scenario where he would be forced to take me out of the house in public, but in a way that he couldn’t be directly blamed. I had to get hurt, but not by his hand. It was a crazy plan, I knew,.
But living with a monster requires a little bit of madness to survive. My weapon of choice today wasn’t a pistol or a kitchen knife, but a bottle of lemon floor cleaner. The smell was fresh, but its function this time would be devastating, or at least excruciatingly painful.
That afternoon, after Preston left for work in his luxury sedan, I went into the master bathroom. This bathroom was probably the size of a college dorm room with unforgivingly hard marble floors. I poured a generous amount of the cleaning liquid near the sink area.
It was slick, dangerously slick. I stared at the soapy puddle, swallowing hard. This was going to hurt. It would definitely hurt.
But this physical pain would be nothing compared to the emotional agony of being slapped every morning over a wrinkled shirt or coffee that wasn’t sweet enough. My heart beat faster than it did waiting for a Black Friday sale at my favorite department store. Time seemed to crawl that evening.
