Prepare the divorce and ruin your husband by Mark Twain 12
Chapter 12
I remembered one night. Late. I came home pissed off, exhausted, burning up with fever but still dragged my ass into the study. Papers everywhere. Deals that couldn’t
wait.
She walked in quietly, holding a tray. A bowl of soup she cooked herself.
“Eat first,” she said. “You’re gonna drop dead working like that.”
I didn’t even lift my head. “Put it there and go. I’ve got shit to finish.”
She didn’t leave.
She pulled a chair next to me and sat there the whole damn night. Cold towel on my forehead. Changing it when it got warm. Wiping the sweat off my face like I was made of glass.
I snapped at her. “Stop hovering. I’m not some weak kid.”
She smiled. Not offended. Not hurt. Just soft.
“I know,” she said quietly. “But you’re still my husband. Let me take care of you.” My grip tightened around the ring.
Fuck.
Back then I didn’t get it. I thought she was annoying. Too soft. Too damn patient. Now? I’d trade my whole empire just to have that kind of love wrap around me one
more time.
I poured myself a drink and sat by the window, watching rain slam against the glass like it wanted in.
One glass turned into two. Two into three.
By the time my head got light, the memories got loud.
I hear my own voice first.
“What the hell are you doing here this late?” I snapped that night outside the office. She was standing there under a black umbrella, rain soaking her sleeves anyway.
She said, “I knew you’d work late. I didn’t want you walking out alone in the rain.”
I remember scoffing.
“You don’t need to babysit me. Don’t do this again.”
She nodded. Smiled.
“Okay. Just… get home safe.”
I see it now. That smile cracked a little. I just didn’t give a shit back then.
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My hand tightened around the glass and it shattered. Whiskey and blood dripping down my fingers. I didn’t even feel it.
What burned was the truth.
I called her clingy.
While I was busy buying Roxanne diamonds, silk dresses, flying her wherever she wanted.
And Isabella? I gave her leftovers. Cheap gifts. Scraps of time.
“Thanks, David,” she’d still say. Like I handed her the world.
Fuck.
I passed out before sunrise.
Woke up still in my suit, head pounding, smelling like booze and regret.
Another memory hit me hard.
A shareholders’ meeting.
She wasn’t supposed to be there. Wives weren’t welcome. They liked them pretty and silent.
But Isabella showed up anyway. Standing at the back. Calm. Proud.
I pulled her aside after.
“Why’d you come?” I asked her. “They talk shit about you. They look down on you.”
She didn’t even flinch.
“They can say whatever they want about me,” she said. “As long as they don’t dare say it about you.”
I remember saying nothing. I should’ve shut that room down for her. I didn’t.
She carried my name on her back while I let people step on her.
Then there was Ryle.
The day he was born, I was drunk on happiness. Real happiness.
I held that kid and laughed like an idiot.
I told her, “You gave me everything. You and him deserve the world.”
I bought her a whole damn rest house by the sea.
Told her, “When you’re tired, take Ryle there. No noise. No blood. No business. Just peace.”
She smiled so wide it hurt my chest.
“You already gave me enough,” she said.
Wed, Jan 28
I was so sure I was a good husband then.
Now look at me.
Isabella’s gone.
87
Ryle’s gone. Both of them were buried because I trusted the wrong person and ignored the woman who loved me like breathing. I dropped onto the couch, chest on fire.
My throat locked up and I couldn’t hold it anymore.
I cried. Ugly. Broken. The kind that rips straight out of your lungs.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered to the empty room.
“I fucked up. I fucked it all up.”
No answer. No soft voice telling me it’s okay. No small hands calling me Dad.
I killed her. Not with my hands, but with my choices. With my silence. With my blindness. With loving the wrong woman too damn much.
I say her name over and over now. Begging the air. Begging ghosts. Doesn’t mean shit. She’s gone. So is my son. And I’m the bastard who put them in the ground.
The next three days ended with Westley on his knees in my warehouse.
They dragged him in half dead already. Face swollen. Mouth bleeding. Shoes gone. The second his knees hit the concrete and he smelled the place, he lost it. Full panic. Shaking so hard his teeth clicked.
“David… please… please don’t do this,” he cried before I even stepped out. “I know where I am. I know what this means. I’ll tell you everything. Everything.”
I stayed in the dark. Gun loose in my hand. Calm. Quiet.
That scared him worse.
“I swear I didn’t want it to go this far,” he sobbed. “It was business at first. Just business. I was following orders.”
I walked closer. “Whose orders.”
He started crying harder, snot running down his face. “Roxanne. It was Roxanne. Please don’t shoot me. Please. I’ll kneel. I’ll beg. I’ll do anything.”
I crouched in front of him. “Why was my sister in law touching my wife’s life.”
He slammed his forehead to the floor. “She hated Isabella since they were kids. Always jealous. Always losing to her. She said you didn’t love Isabella anymore. You were busy with her. I thought… I thought you wanted Isabella broken.”
Click.
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The sound alone made him scream.
“No no no no please,” he wailed. “I swear I didn’t mean it like that. I tried to be gentle at first. She fought me. She screamed. I just wanted her quiet.”
Bang.
11:08 Wed, Jan 28
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