"Adam, I won't stay with you for another second." My voice trembled, but the resolve behind it was steel. "I want a divorce."
His rage evaporated instantly, replaced by a terrifyingly soft demeanor. He stepped forward and caught me by the waist, pulling me close.
"I was wrong just now," he murmured, low and coaxing. "I got too worked up."
He smoothed my hair, playing the doting husband. "Divorce is serious, Layla. We've been together over a decade. You can't just throw that word around."
I forced a smile, masking the cold hatred taking root in my chest. I let my demeanor soften, mirroring the submissive wife he wanted.
"You're right. We shouldn't end things so easily."
I'll drag him back to the bottom, I thought. He'll taste every ounce of pain he's inflicted on me.
He exhaled, satisfied he'd managed me once again. He ushered me toward the car and shoved me inside.
The interior reeked—the unmistakable, musky scent of sex that hadn't yet faded.
My gaze fell to the passenger seat. Crumpled in the corner lay a pair of torn lace stockings.
Adam followed my gaze. His eyes widened. He snatched the stockings and hurled them out the window, then raised a hand like he was taking an oath.