Ten Slaps To Kill My Love

Pregnancy had turned me into a creature of suffocating anxiety.

Every single day, I would text Donald to ask if he loved me. For the first ninety-nine times, he replied with a measured, manufactured gentleness.

Until the hundredth time.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed with three rapid-fire texts, dripping with a venom Id never seen from him before.

[Camille, do you seriously have nothing better to do?]

[The morning sickness stopped, the baby isn't torturing you anymore, so now youve decided to torture me?]

[If you have this much free time, why dont you look in the mirror? Your face is starting to look like a bloated piece of cheap meat.]

I sat there, paralyzed.

A second later, the messages vanished from the screenunsent. A voice note popped up in their place.

"I'm sorry," Donald's voice came through, smooth and composed. "My junior assistant accidentally sent those from my phone. Please don't take it to heart."

Accident or not, the logistics didn't matter anymore.

All I knew, with a sudden and crystalline clarity, was that our marriage was completely, irreversibly dead.

I got up and went straight to the clinic.

When I walked out of the sterile, brightly lit recovery room, my womb was empty. The four-month-old pregnancy was gone.

By the time I finally returned to our penthouse, the city skyline was cloaked in absolute darkness. The living room was bathed in the warm glow of the designer lamps. Donald was sitting on the Italian leather sofa.

Hearing the door, he looked up, his brow furrowing instantly.

"Where have you been? Its late. Do you not know how to return a text or a call?"

I didn't say a word.

I slipped out of my heels, stepped into my slippers, and walked into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water.

He watched me, his gaze lingering on my face for a few seconds before he finally let out a long sigh.

"I explained what happened this afternoon. My assistant grabbed the wrong phone. Shes already apologized to me, and I reprimanded her. It wont happen again."

'A junior assistant grabbed her bosss private phone by mistake?'

A faint, hollow laugh escaped my lips. I set the glass down and actually looked at him.

Donald was breathtakingly handsome. It was the first thing I had known about him, the very first time I saw him. Now, at thirty-three, he had aged like fine bourbonfar better than most men his age. Just sitting there in his cashmere loungewear, he looked like an editorial spread in GQ.

I used to love looking at him. I used to think I could spend a lifetime memorizing the planes of his face and never grow tired of it.

But tonight, looking at him, I realized his beauty had nothing to do with me anymore. He was like a couture gown in a heavily guarded window display. You can stand on the sidewalk staring at it for years, convincing yourself it belongs to you, but you never actually get to take it home.

"Donald," I started, my voice ringing out much calmer than I had anticipated. "What was that little assistants name again?"

He paused, a micro-shift in his posture.

"Marissa. Why?"

"How long has she been working for you?"

"Six months, give or take." He frowned, quickly adding, "Why are you interrogating me about this? I told you it was a misunderstanding. Do you really have to cling to this? Can't you just pretend you didn't see it?"

Four defensive questions in a row.

I didn't take the bait. I just let the silence stretch for a moment before I continued. "I remember when she first started. You mentioned her in passing. You said the new hire was clumsy, practically incompetent, completely lacking the ruthless efficiency you usually demand from your staff. You never brought her up again. I naturally assumed you'd fired her."

I tilted my head. "But it turns out, not only did you not fire her, but right around the time she showed up, your 'overtime' hours mysteriously doubled. Your sudden out-of-state business trips became incredibly frequent."

The crease between Donald's brows deepened.

"Camille, what exactly are you implying?"

I offered a small, empty smile. "Im just stating the facts."

His irritation finally broke through his polished veneer. "Look, I know pregnancy is hard. Your hormones are all over the place, your emotions are volatile. I get that. But you can't just spiral into paranoia over a few misfired texts. Its not good for you, and its not good for the baby."

'The baby.'

The words were a microscopic needle slipping precisely between my ribs, piercing directly into my heart.

How long had we been married? Four years.

I was twenty-two when I sneaked back to the States after living in Europe, just wanting to rebel, to play. At a society party, I laid eyes on Donald and fell with a catastrophic, gravity-defying kind of love. I went after him with everything I had.

At first, he thought I was too young, too naive. But I was relentless. I ripped my heart out of my chest and offered it to him on a silver platter. I bought him expensive watches, sent him rare vintages, and eventually, I was the one who proposed.

People in our circle whispered. They laughed at me behind their manicured hands, saying a girl from my background shouldn't be so desperate, so lacking in grace.

But I hadn't cared. I thought that was what love was supposed to bebrave, unashamed, loud.

Eventually, he wore down. We dated for a year, then married.

For the four years of our marriage, every single day was a tightrope walk of me pouring out my affection, desperate for scraps. If he gave me the slightest hint of warmth, it was like the sun rising in my universe.

When I got pregnant, something shifted. He seemed genuinely pleased. He gave me more attention than he ever had.

But the quiet terror had already set in. The foundation was rotting. I couldn't shake the anxiety, constantly clinging to him, begging him to validate me. Even though he rarely used the word 'love,' his soft, ''I'll be home early tonight,'' felt like a lifeline.

Until today. When the private phonethe one he never even let me touchwas casually handled by another woman to hurl insults at me.

That was when the fog cleared. He had never, not from day one, held me in his heart.

But it was okay. It was finally over. I had simply run out of love to give.

Seeing me stand there in silence, he must have assumed I had yielded. He walked over, his anger softening into a patronizing patience, and reached out to pull me into his arms.

"Alright, enough. Stop overthinking. I had the housekeeper make your favorite soup. Have a bowl and go to sleep. Its the weekend tomorrow, Ill take you shopping"

"I had an abortion."

The words slipped from my mouth, light as a feather.

But Donald froze completely. His arms were still raised in the ghost of an embrace, suspended mid-air.

The penthouse went so quiet I could hear the rhythmic ticking of the antique clock in the hallway.

'One. Two. Three.'

Slowly, he straightened his posture. He looked down at me as if the English language had suddenly become a foreign tongue.

"What did you just say?"

I looked up, meeting his eyes dead on. I enunciated every syllable.

"I said, the baby is gone. After you sent me those messages, I went to the clinic. I terminated the pregnancy."

I watched the color drain from his face, inch by agonizing inch.

In the five years I had known Donald, I had almost never seen him lose his composure. To the world, he was utterly untouchable, a man whose emotions were regulated like a flawless piece of Swiss engineering.

But right now, the gears were grinding to a halt.

I found a morbid sense of fascination in it. I just kept watching him.

"You didn't consult me... and you just got rid of the baby?"

My lips curved upward. "Yes."

"Camille." My name tore from his throat, trembling. "That was my child, too."

I gave a nonchalant shrug. "I know."

"You know?" His voice suddenly shattered the quiet room, his eyes turning a violent, bloodshot red. "You know, and yet you went to the clinic by yourself and killed our child without even saying a damn word to me?!"

"Camille! Do I even exist to you as your husband?!"

He had never yelled at me like this. Whenever we fought in the past, his weapon of choice was icy silence. He would simply freeze me out until the lack of oxygen forced me to apologize first.

But in this moment, a genuine laugh bubbled up from my chest. "Donald, so you actually 'can' get angry? Your eyes 'can' get red? You're capable of losing your mind like a normal human being? I thought your only setting was emotional abuse."

Donald flinched, but the shock quickly morphed into absolute fury. His hand shot out, his fingers digging painfully into my jaw.

"What the hell is wrong with you?! I told you I didn't send those texts! Why won't you just believe me?!" he roared, his breath hot against my face. "And that wasn't just your baby! It was mine! What gave you the right to play God and rip it out of you?"

"Since you're so capable of murdering my child all by yourself, then you are going to give me another one!"

Before I could process the words, he yanked me forward and crushed his mouth against mine.

It wasn't a kiss; it was an assault. The sharp, metallic taste of copper flooded my mouth instantly. I winced against the pain.

Five years together, and he had never initiated a kiss. Even in our most intimate moments, I was always the one reaching for him, pulling him down. There were times I would lie awake, dreaming of him just wanting me like this.

Now, all it invoked was a rising bile in my throat.

I bit down, hard.

He groaned in pain and shoved me backward.

I stumbled, catching myself, my eyes burning with unshed tears as I glared at him. "You want a baby? Go find another woman. Your little assistant seems pretty damn eager to breed for you."

Donald froze, wiping the blood from his lip. "What did you say?"

"I said," I screamed, my voice tearing at the seams, "Go have a baby with Marissa! Keep your pathetic, hypocritical hands off me!"

"Donald, right now, looking at you makes me want to vomit!"

He stared at me, his gaze so intense it felt like he was trying to nail me to the floorboards.

Three agonizing seconds passed. Then, he laughed. A cold, hollow sound.

"Fine. Since you're being so incredibly generous, I'll give you exactly what you want." He grabbed his keys from the console. "Don't regret this. And don't come crawling back to me crying."

The front door slammed shut with bone-rattling force.

The silence rushed back in, heavier than before.

I stared at the heavy oak door. The tears, which I hadn't realized were falling, suddenly became a torrential flood. I collapsed to my knees, sobbing uncontrollably. It was as if I was purging five years of quiet humiliation, of begging for scraps, of making myself small.

'Donald, I promise you, I won't regret this.'

'And I will never, ever beg you again.'

I wiped my face with the back of my trembling hand, pulled out my phone, and dialed a number I rarely used.

"Hey, it's me," I whispered when my brother picked up. "The shadow capital we injected into Donalds firm. Pull it all. Every last cent."

Donald didn't come home that night.

First thing Saturday morning, I went straight to my lawyer's office and had the divorce papers drawn up.

Since it was the weekend, he wouldn't be at the office. I had no idea where to find him to serve him.

Just as I stepped out onto the bustling Manhattan street, my phone buzzed with a video file. A second later, a voice note from my best friend, Jocelyn, exploded through my speaker.

"Cam! Is this your untouchable, golden-boy husband?!"

"Im at Fifth Avenue shopping, and I just saw him with some girl! He literally got down on one knee on the sidewalk to tie her shoe for her!"

"You were four months pregnant, and hes out here scavenging for scraps? The absolute audacity of this bastard! I swear to God, I am going to murder them both!"

My thumb hovered over the screen. I tapped play.

The footage was slightly shaky, shot from a distance. But there he was. The man who always stood above the rest of the world, crouching on the pavement with an indulgent, helpless smile, tying the laces of the young girl beside him because she was pouting. She was laughing, filming him with her phone.

A sharp, phantom pain sliced through my chest.

It wasn't that I hadn't wanted that kind of indulgence from him. I had. But whenever I asked, he would just look down at me with that cool, detached expression. He never outright refused, but he never moved a muscle, either. He would just let the silence stretch until I was so humiliated I had to laugh it off and change the subject.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, typed a quick reply to Jocelyn.

[Im divorcing him.]

The moment the text sent, an unknown number called me.

"Is this Camille St. Claire?" a stern voice asked. "Your husband and your friend were involved in an altercation. We need you to come down to the 19th Precinct immediately."

Jocelyn had a temper, but I hadn't expected her to go scorched-earth this fast.

I hailed a cab and rushed downtown.

The moment I pushed through the heavy glass doors of the precinct, the shouting hit me like a physical wave.

"Donald, you piece of shit!" Jocelyn was screaming, restrained by an exhausted-looking officer. "How could you do this to Camille?! She was carrying your child! And youre out here flaunting your mistress in broad daylight, tying her damn shoes?! Why don't you just drop dead?!"

"Camille gave you everything! She loved you so much"

"Did I ask her to?" Donald's voice cut through the air, sharp as a guillotine.

I froze in the doorway.

Donald wasn't finished. "Did I ever beg her to treat me well? Did I beg her to love me? Was I the one who threw away my pride to chase a man who didn't want me? Was I the one who crawled into her bed, practically begging to be married the second I snapped my fingers? So what if she was good to me? I didn't love her. Why the hell should I owe her anything just because she decided to martyr herself? And what, just because she was pregnant, I'm supposed to chain myself to her side?"

Jocelyn looked ready to combust. If the cop hadn't been holding her back, she would have torn his throat out.

"You soulless bastard! If it weren't for Camille, you would've been bankrupt and rotting in"

"Jocelyn, stop," I interrupted, stepping fully into the room. I walked straight past Donald and looked at the desk sergeant. "Im here to take her home."

Before the officer could speak, Donalds dark, commanding voice echoed through the bleak room. "She assaulted someone. You think she gets to just walk away?"

I slowly turned to look at the woman clinging to his arm. Marissa. Her eyes were red, her cheek bearing the faint, pink outline of Jocelyn's hand. Finally, I looked at him.

"What do you want, then?"

Donald's eyes were glacial.

"Your friend slapped my assistant. Now, I want her to pay it back."

Jocelyn let out a bark of incredulous laughter. "Let that little bitch try to hit me, I'll break her"

"I didn't say she would hit you," Donald interrupted, his gaze sliding off Jocelyn and locking onto me with a terrifying intensity.

"Camille. Your friend made a mistake on your behalf. Therefore, you foot the bill."

"You motherf" Jocelyn trembled with rage, lunging forward.

But before she could move, I spoke.

"Fine."

Jocelyns head whipped toward me. "Camille, are you out of your mind?! Hes the one cheating! Hes the one who ruined everything!"

I ignored her. I walked the few steps until I was standing directly in front of Donald and Marissa.

"Do it."

Marissa shrank back slightly, tears welling perfectly in her eyes. "Mr. Hobart, please, don't make it hard for your wife, I"

'SMACK.'

Before she could finish her performance, Donald grabbed Marissa's wrist and drove her hand forcefully across my cheek.

A sharp, burning pain exploded across the left side of my face.

The room went dead silent. I turned to walk away.

"Did I say we were done?"

Donald's voice was absolute ice. "She slapped Marissa once. I want it paid back tenfold."

He practically dragged Marissa forward. Before my brain could even register the threat, the blows rained down.

'Smack. Smack. Smack.'

Nine hits. Each one heavier, more degrading, more violent than the last.

With every strike, a tiny piece of the pathetic, desperate love I had hoarded in my chest withered away and died.

By the time the final blow landed, I felt absolutely nothing. A profound, hollow numbness had settled into my bones.

Something warm trickled down the corner of my mouth. I tasted iron.

None of the officers stepped in. Donald Hobart owned half the real estate in this city; no one was going to cross him over a domestic spat where he technically didn't throw the punch himself.

When it was over, Donald gently massaged Marissa's wrist, not looking at me.

He delivered his final warning to Jocelyn. "Keep your dog on a leash. Next time she barks at people who belong to me, it won't end like this."

He turned, placing a protective hand on Marissa's lower back to guide her out.

"Donald."

I called out to his retreating back. Reaching into my designer tote, I pulled out the manila envelope. "Let's divorce."

He stopped, turning back with a look of pure disdain. "You want to divorce me?"

I nodded once. "Yes."

He stared at me for a long, suffocating moment, and then a cruel smirk touched his lips.

"Camille, I haven't even settled the score with you for killing my child behind my back. Now you're pulling this 'divorce' stunt to get my attention? Playing hard to get?"

I gave a dry, broken smile. "You flatter yourself."

His expression darkened instantly. He snatched the papers from my hand, pulled a Montblanc pen from his breast pocket, and aggressively slashed his signature across the bottom line. He threw the papers directly into my chest.

"Just a friendly reminder, Camille," he sneered, leaning in close. "Without me, you are absolutely nothing. When you inevitably come crying back, begging me to let you in, I won't even look your way."