Kimberly
The silence that followed Kendrick’s question was deafening. It wrapped around me like an iron chain, binding me in place while my heart thundered in my chest.
“Tell me why I should let my wife leave,” he asked again, this time softer, his voice barely above a whisper.
But that softness…it wasn’t kindness.
It was control.
A terrifying, deadly calm that only a man like Kendrick could maintain when his world was spiraling.
I wanted to scream. To tell him that I wasn’t really his wife.
That I’d never given him my heart. That this entire bond between us was forged in manipulation, in control, in power.
However, something inside me faltered.
Maybe it was the way he looked at me—as if he had already lost me.
As if he had nothing left but the hope that I’d say something
