Chapter 19
Chapter 19:
The slap echoed through my parents’ living room like a gunshot.
I’d never hit anyone before. Not once in twenty-seven years. But watching Nathan stand there, shouting about gratitude—about how I owed him something, about how all men make mistakes—something in me snapped clean through.
My palm connected with his cheek hard enough to snap his head sideways. Hard enough to leave a red imprint blooming across his skin. Hard enough to finally, finally shut him up.
“If you don’t sign,” I said, and my voice was steady as stone, “we’ll meet in court. And I’ll make sure every single one of your colleagues knows exactly what kind of man you are p>
He stared at me, one hand pressed to his face, his eyes wide with something I’d never seen there before: fear. Not of me, exactly. Of what I’d become. Of what he’d lost the ability to control.
In our relationship, I had always been the one who bent. The one who apologized first, who made excuses, who smoothed things over. I had built my entire identity around being understanding. And he had counted on that. Depended on it. Taken it for granted so completely that he’d forgotten I was capable of anything else.
Whose fault is that? I asked myself. His for taking? Or mine for giving?
Both, probably. But only one of us was going to change.
“I won’t give in,” I said. “Not this time. Not ever again. Even if we have to burn everything down—I’m not backing off p>
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He left without signing.
Of course he did. Nathan Calloway had never once in his life believed that someone wouldn’t eventually come around to seeing things his way. He’d spent thirty years being handsome and charming and getting exactly what he wanted. Why would this be any different?
That night, my phone lit up with Meredith’s number.
If I die, it’s your fault. You stole the happiness that belonged to me. I’ll make sure everyone knows.
I read the message twice. Three times. Waited for some feeling to surface—guilt, maybe, or fear, or even pity.
Nothing came.
The rules of this world aren’t the ones Meredith Sloane invents. The weakest-sounding voice isn’t automatically right. And threatening suicide to manipulate people doesn’t make you a victim—it makes you a hostage-taker.
I screenshot the message. Sent it to Nathan with a single line: Your ex is threatening to hurt herself. You should probably handle that. Don’t blame me if something happens.
Then I blocked her number, deleted the conversation, and went to bed.