"Call me whatever you want, Eliza. But the truth is, he wants me now. You’re barren. You’re empty. A broken vessel with nothing to offer. Why would he keep a car that can’t run when he has a brand new model right here?"
She placed a hand on her stomach, a gesture that made my blood boil.
I forced myself to breathe. In and out. I wouldn't let her see me break. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of my tears.
I stood up, wincing as my stitches pulled, and faced her.
"You might be right," I said, my voice deadly calm. "He might want you. He might sleep with you. But look at where we are, Donna."
"What?" she frowned.
"He locked me in here because he won't let me go," I said, stepping closer until I was inches from her face. "He said it himself. He won't divorce me. Which means, as long as I breathe, I am Mrs. George Caldwell. I am the wife."
I poked her chest hard.
"And you? You’re just the mistress. You’re the dirty little secret he keeps on the side. You’re the placeholder until he gets bored. And trust me, Donna, he always gets bored."
Donna’s face flushed red. Her composure cracked.
"You think a piece of paper makes you special?" she hissed. "He hates you!"