"If it weren't for me, you'd still be scrambling to pay your deadbeat brother's tuition."
"Miranda. Learn to be grateful."
Grateful.
What a beautiful word.
I looked at this man standing before me, so utterly convinced of his own righteousness, and realized—three years of my youth had been thrown to the dogs.
For him, I'd given up my chance to study abroad.
For him, I'd agreed to be invisible, a secret kept in shadows.
For him, I'd set aside my ambitions, learned to cook, softened every sharp edge I had.
And after all that? In his eyes, I was nothing but a charity case. A beggar surviving on his scraps.
"Aiden."
I drew a deep breath, forcing down the agony clawing at my chest.
"Let's get a divorce."
The hand flicking ash went still.
Then—slowly—he laughed. A low, incredulous sound, like he'd just heard the joke of the century.
"Divorce?"
He rose and moved toward me, step by deliberate step, until my back hit the wall.
His hand shot out to grip my chin, fingers digging in hard enough to grind bone.
"Miranda, what makes you think you have the right to ask me for a divorce?"
"You think you can survive without me?"
"Stop being ridiculous. Be good."