Chapter 4 4
POV Katherine Ellis
I waited for him in the living room, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the door.
I had to talk to him about what he’d done today; he couldn’t just corner me that way—not after everything he said over the phone when I confronted him.
Why did he send Elliot to the house as if I had agreed?
When the key turned in the lock, I knew I wasn’t going to hold back. Even though I’d already made a deal with Elliot, I was furious with my husband; his way of doing things wasn’t right, and I couldn’t allow him to make those decisions without asking me first.
Andrew came in without looking at me. He dropped the keys on the table, loosened his shirt collar, and let out a heavy sigh.
“Is dinner ready yet?”
“Dinner ready? Is that all you’re going to say? I can’t believe it.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Why did you corner me like that?” I shouted.
He stopped for just a second—long enough to smirk—before walking toward the hallway.
“You should thank me for helping you,” he said, with that calm tone that always drove me insane. “And remember, since you clearly can’t make decisions for yourself, it’s time I do it for you. I decided you’re going to teach my boss’s son for the next few months, and you’d better make sure he passes. Otherwise, you’ll really screw me over. Aren’t you going to thank me? I did you a favor—why that face?”
“Helping me? You think that was helping me?” I went after him, heart in my throat. “You humiliated me. You didn’t tell me anything. You forced me to receive him, without warning, without letting me prepare. Why, Andrew? I wasn’t even ready! You know how I feel, how this affects me. I looked like an idiot!”
“Maybe because you are.”
“You can’t talk to me like that!” I grabbed his arm, desperate for him to look at me—to listen. But when he turned, there was no understanding in his eyes. Only rage.
The slap came without warning. A sharp, bent-hand blow—precise enough to hurt more.
The sound was so clear that the air froze; pain took over everything in me.
I stood still, cheek burning, body trembling.
“I’m sick of you,” he said, looking at me as if I disgusted him. “Your crying. Your face every morning. Seeing you there—pathetic, miserable.”
“Don’t talk to me like that,” I whispered, weakly.
“Like what?” he shouted. “Like this? Telling you the truth? If you miss your son so much, let’s just have another! We could—if you weren’t so cold. So stiff.”
He looked me up and down, full of contempt.
“N-No… You’re a monster.”
“It’s been ages since you’ve touched me. And when you do, it’s like hugging a rock. Do you know how long it’s been since I wanted you, Katherine? I can’t even remember your smell.”
I lost my breath.
“What… what are you saying?”
“That I don’t know what to do with you,” he went on. “Leave you, divorce you, pretend you don’t exist? Because that’s what I do. I pretend you’re not here.”
“Andrew…”
“No,” he cut me off. “Don’t talk. Don’t say a word. Do you know what it’s like to live with someone who cries every day? Who wakes up with a dead face, doesn’t comb her hair, doesn’t laugh? Look at yourself!”
He grabbed my shoulders hard and shook me. “Look at yourself!” he repeated. I tried to pull away, but his hands pinned me down. “You look old,” he said, crueler than I’d ever heard him. “You’ve aged ten years in two. And don’t start with Ethan again. We all suffered, but you turned it into an excuse to destroy yourself.”
My son’s name shattered me.
“Don’t say his name…” I whispered. “Don’t say it!”
“Of course I’ll say it!” he yelled. “Because I’m done watching you use him as a shield. Hiding behind his death to justify what you’ve become—a woman who gave up, drowning in her own misery and dragging everyone else down with her.”
“Shut up!” I screamed, tears streaming down my face.
“Shut up? No. I’ve kept quiet for two years, Katherine. Two years putting up with your breakdowns, your silences, your days without touching me or even looking at me.”
He shoved me hard. I stumbled over the edge of the sofa.
“Andrew, please…” I whispered.
“Please what? That I keep pretending I have a wife? You’re not even that anymore. You’re a shadow. A burden.”
I covered my face, trying to stop the crying.
“Don’t cry,” he said, voice lower—but not out of pity. Out of disgust. He yanked my hands away. “I said don’t cry!” He shook me, rough, side to side, as if he could force the tears out of me. “I’m talking to you! Look at me when I talk to you!”
I couldn’t. I was too afraid of what I’d see if I did.
“You’re hurting me, Andrew. Let me go!”
“I can’t stand it,” he muttered, shoving me away.
“Andrew, stop…”
“No, I won’t. I’m sick of you! Sick!” he shouted, dragging the word until I shivered. “Sick of this house, this silence, seeing you cry over everything. Do you know what it’s like to wake up every morning and see this?”
He pointed around—the living room, the pictures, the closed curtains, the stale air.
“This isn’t life. It’s a damn torment.”
I looked at him through blurred vision.
“I didn’t want things to be like this…”
“But they are!” He slammed his fist on the table. “And they’ll keep being like this as long as you keep acting like the world owes you something!”
I stepped back. My spine hit the wall.
“I can’t take it anymore,” I whispered.
“Then control yourself,” he said, closing in. “At least try. I don’t know how you can stand yourself.”
Tears blinded me.
“What happened to you, Andrew?” I sobbed. “You used to be different… Why are you so cruel? You hit me—you’re hurting me.”
“And I’d do it again if it made you who you were!” He pointed at me. “I was naive. Thought I could save you. But you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. I hate you, Kate. I realize that now. I hate your voice, your face, this house, the emptiness of being near you. Every time I hope something will change, it doesn’t. You’re ruined, and you want to drag me down with you. I don’t even feel sorry for you anymore—I just hate you.”
“Don’t say that…”
“I’m saying it,” he growled, face tight. “And I mean it. I hate you. This has become unbearable. And if I’m still here, it’s just out of obligation. Maybe I’m afraid that if I leave, this house will rot with you, and I’ll feel guilty when they tell me you’ve killed yourself. You exhaust me. You force me to stay. You’re nothing but a burden—and it’s time you knew it.”
His words stripped everything from me—a truth so cruel it hollowed me out.
He hated me. My husband hated me. Was this what we had become?
“Don’t leave me…”
“I already did, a long time ago,” he whispered—quieter than a shout, but sharper.
I reached for his arm, but he shoved me away. I fell to the floor, hands over my face.
“Look at yourself,” he said, voice low now. “You don’t even have dignity.”
I stayed there, trembling. I wasn’t crying anymore—just breathing in short gasps, staring at his shoes in front of me.
“You’d better help that kid,” he added coldly. “If my boss gets angry, you’ll be the one to pay for it.”
He looked at me one last time, indifferent, and turned toward the door.
“Andrew…”
No answer.
Only the sound of the door closing broke the silence.
I stayed on the floor. I don’t know how long. The echo of the slap still burned on my skin.
I looked at my hands. They were red, shaking. I touched my cheek—it still burned.
There was no hatred in me, only a weariness so deep it hurt to breathe.
Outside, the car engine started. Silence filled the house again, thick as a blanket. I stayed there, unmoving, until the dark swallowed the light in the living room. I dragged myself to the sofa and sat down, staring at the door he had walked out of.
I wanted to hate him, but I couldn’t. Maybe because hate requires strength, and I had none. Only silence and pain remained—the same as always, but heavier, deeper.
Why did it have to be so hard to start over? Why was it so hard for me?
I wanted to believe everyone who lost someone managed to go on with their lives. Why couldn’t I? Why did I still feel like my life had gone with Ethan?
There wasn’t much left to fight for—and maybe that was the problem. There was no reason left to live.