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?
The Counterattack
With my last ounce of strength I aimed the nozzle directly at his wide open eyes and pressed down hard. The stinging chemical spray shot out hitting him square in the face. Preston screamed in agony, his hands instinctively flying to his burning eyes releasing my neck.
“Ah! My eyes!”
I collapsed to the floor coughing and gasping for air. Preston staggered backward crashing into the glass shower door cracking it. He was temporarily blinded.
I remembered his other physical weakness besides his ego. Asthma. He had severe asthma that flared up when he was enraged or exposed to chemical dust.
I scrambled out of the bathroom towards the drawer where he kept his medications. Preston was still roaring in the bathroom but his roars were turning into wheezing gasps. I grabbed his inhaler from the drawer.
The small device that could save his life was in my hand. Preston stumbled out of the bathroom his eyes red and swollen, his breathing ragged. He saw me holding the inhaler. He reached out a hand grasping desperately,.
His voice was gone. I stood there staring at him. A year ago I would have run to him crying with worry. But not tonight. I kicked the inhaler.
It slid across the floor and disappeared under the dark narrow gap of the wardrobe.
“Get it yourself Preston,” I said coldly.
Preston looked at me in disbelief then at the space under the wardrobe. He tried to crawl towards it but his strength was gone. He collapsed onto the carpet clutching his chest gasping for air like a fish on land.
In the distance I heard the most beautiful sound in the world. The wailing siren of a police car growing louder and louder as it approached our gate. The wail of police sirens outside the gate was the best song I had ever heard. It was loud and chaotic but it made my heart want to dance with joy.
In front of me Preston, the great master who was usually fiercer than a guard dog, lay helpless on his favorite imported shag rug. His breath came in pathetic little squeaks, his chest heaving as he tried to gulp down air that seemed to refuse to enter his corrupted lungs,.
His face swollen and red from the hairspray made him look like a circus clown who had failed a stunt. I just stood there watching him without an ounce of pity. Once I would have panicked and made him ginger tea if he so much as coughed. Now I felt like grabbing a snack and watching the show.
The bedroom door was kicked open and several uniformed police officers rushed in weapons drawn ready to face a dangerous criminal. Behind them Dr. Miles appeared his white coat billowing. He looked like a hero arriving just after the villain had already been defeated.
“Don’t shoot! He’s neutralized,” I yelled raising my hands to show I wasn’t a threat.
The police secured the room while Dr. Miles, despite a look of extreme reluctance on his face, quickly checked Preston’s condition. The irony was palpable. The doctor whose sister this man had murdered was now forced to provide first aid to ensure the killer didn’t die before facing justice,.
“Give him oxygen. Don’t let him die. Prison is too good for him if he dies now,” Dr. Miles said coldly to the paramedics who followed him in.
After his breathing was stabilized with emergency medical help Preston was handcuffed. Seeing the hands that used to slap me now bound in cold steel brought a sense of satisfaction that no shopping spree could ever buy.
He was carried out of the room past the vanity where he used to admire himself. He looked at me with what little strength he had left, his eyes burning with pure hatred.
“You treacherous wife,” he rasped.
I just gave him a sweet smile, the most genuine one I had ever offered him. “Not treacherous Preston. Just reaping what you sowed. Consider it a harvest festival.”
