Discharging Myself From Your Marriage

By the third year of my marriage to Christian, I had become the most reliable emotional specimen in his private psychiatric clinic.

Three psychological evaluations a week. One deep hypnosis session a month.

Christian told me it was all to cure my chronic insomnia.

And I believed him. Without a single doubt.

Until yesterday, when I woke up early from my trance and heard his voice drifting through the thin walls of the adjoining observation room.

"Keep pushing her."

"The more authentic her breakdown, the better the desensitization therapy works for Callie."

The therapist hesitated, his voice tight.

"But your wife is already showing signs of self-harm, Christian. If we keep going, she might not survive it."

There was a heavy, suffocating silence.

Then, Christian spoke, his tone casual, almost detached.

"Gwen is my wife."

"Helping me save the person I want to save is exactly what shes supposed to do."

It was in that silent, freezing moment that the truth finally shattered me.

All my agony, my sleepless nights, my panic attacks, my complete psychological collapses over the past three years

They were nothing but clinical data points.

Harvested to cure his fragile, glass-doll childhood sweetheart.

When the doctor pushed the door open, I had already shut my eyes, forcing my breathing to remain slow and even.

Christian must have assumed I was still deeply under. His footsteps on the linoleum floor were light, almost ghost-like.

The cold, metallic electrode pads were pressed against my temples once more, their icy contact making me shudder inwardly.

"Mr. Ward, perhaps we should stop here for today?" the doctor whispered, a tremor of hesitation in his voice. "Your wife's wrist wound from last night hasn't even begun to heal."

Through the slightly ajar door, Christians voice cut through the sterile air, cool and sharp.

"She didn't die, did she?"

"Proceed with the schedule."

The doctor tried to advocate for me one last time. "But she lost a lot of blood last night, and the sedatives haven't fully cleared her system. At least let her rest for a day."

I heard the dry rustle of paper as Christian flipped through my medical chart. His tone remained perfectly flat.

"Shes survived much worse than this before."

"Gwen isn't fragile."

"Gwen isn't fragile."

That used to be his favorite way to praise me.

When my stomach ulcers flared up so badly that I curled into a ball on the kitchen tile, he told me I wasn't fragile.

When I spent the entire night of my parents' death anniversary staring at the ceiling, shaking with silent grief, he said I wasn't fragile.

Even when the deep hypnosis sessions left me dry-heaving over the toilet until my throat burned with bile, he still looked at me with that calm approval and whispered that I wasn't fragile.

But when Callie so much as winced during a routine blood draw, Christian would hold her hand, whispering softly, "Cry if it hurts, sweetie. Don't hold it in. You don't have to be strong for me."

Only now did I realize that "not fragile" wasn't a compliment.

It was his license to let me suffer.

The room fell into a heavy silence.

Lying back in the leather reclining chair, my fingers curled slowly into my palms, my short nails digging into my skin.

The doctor, obeying his employer, finally flipped the switch.

Through the noise-canceling headphones, the audio file I dreaded most began to play.

The screeching of tires. The horrific tear of twisting metal.

And then, my own hysterical, ragged screams.

It was the recording of the car crash from three years ago. The crash that killed both of my parents.

Christian had always known how deeply that night had scarred me.

When I had my first severe panic attack on a stormy night during our first year together, I had locked myself in the closet, shaking uncontrollably.

He had canceled an entire board meeting, pried open the closet door, pulled me into his arms, and kissed my forehead over and over.

"Gwen, hold onto me if you're scared," he had whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I will never take your pain lightly. I'm going to help you heal. We'll get through this together."

I didn't know then that his way of "helping me heal" was to drag me back into that living nightmare day after day.

Only to record my raw panic and slice it into therapy modules for Callie.

My chest tightened, a suffocating pressure crushing my lungs as the heart rate monitor began to beep in sharp, frantic bursts.

The doctor panicked. "Mr. Ward, your wife's vitals are spiking! We have to stop!"

The door to the observation room swung open.

Christian stepped up to the side of my chair, looking down at me with cold, analytical eyes.

His hand gripped my shoulder, firm and completely unyielding. "Gwen, breathe," he commanded, his voice steady to the point of cruelty. "Don't lose control."

"Don't lose control."

His words to me were always commands.

But then, a soft, dry cough echoed from the hallway outside.

In an instant, his entire demeanor shifted. "Callie?"

He spun around and rushed out of the room, completely ignoring how his abrupt movement tore one of the monitoring leads clean off my chest.

"Are you alright? Did the alarm scare you?"

A few moments later, he guided Callie into my room.

She wore an oversized hospital gown that made her look even tinier, her face pale, her delicate fingers clutching at the sleeve of his designer suit.

Christian leaned down, his voice dropping to a tender, soothing register. "Don't worry, it was just the machine making noise. You're safe. No one is going to force you to do anything."

Those words pierced my ears like a poisoned needle.

Because ten minutes ago, he had looked at the doctor and said:

"If Gwen refuses to cooperate, increase the dosage. Restrain her if necessary."

No one would ever force Callie.

But I could be strapped down to a chair, plunged back into the worst day of my life, screaming until my vocal cords bled, only to be reduced to a sterile clinical annotation:

"Subject's panic response is highly authentic. High utility for modeling."

When I opened my eyes, my tears had already soaked into my hair at my temples.

Christian frowned slightly, pulling a tissue from the box to wipe my face.

The gesture was practiced and gentle, but his voice was entirely hollow.

"Another nightmare?" he asked. "You're fine. The doctor is right here."

Suddenly, memory of last night flashed in my mind.

After I sliced my wrist, blood had pooled across the bathroom floor.

When Christian rushed home, his first instinct wasn't to check the depth of my wound.

Instead, he had looked up at the doctor standing by my side.

"Did she have another episode? Did you manage to record the physiological onset?"

The doctors silence had been painful to witness.

Only then did Christian seem to remember I was a human being, leaning down to brush a stray lock of hair from my cheek.

"Gwen, stop making a scene," he whispered. "You're going to frighten Callie."

And yet, when Callie sent him a single text in the middle of the night, he had abandoned my bedside instantly, throwing on his coat to rush to her.

He had even grabbed the soothing chamomile and lavender herbal broth I had spent all evening brewing for myself.

"Callies immune system is weak," Christian had said as he walked out the door. "You can make another batch tomorrow."

The next morning, I saw that very thermos on Callie's Instagram feed.

Her caption read:

"He said no matter how dark the night gets, hell always be the one to guide me home."

I stared up at Christian now, a sudden wave of physical nausea hitting me.

How could he push me into the abyss with his own hands, and then, without missing a beat, ask if I was okay?

Seeing me awake, Callie's eyes immediately pooled with tears.

"Gwen, I'm so sorry," she whimpered, her voice trembling. "Is it because of me that you had to go through this again today?"

Her tears spilled over, beautiful and delicate.

Christians brow furrowed slightly as he reached out to steady her shoulder. "Don't say that."

I stared at his hand resting on her arm.

The very same hand that had just wiped away my tears.

But his grip on her was so light, so protective, as if terrified she might break under his touch.

"Christian," I rasped, my throat raw. "Why does curing her illness require exploiting my pain?"

His hand froze.

Callie's face drained of color instantly.

"Gwen, I am so, so sorry. I didn't mean to drag you into this. Christian told me your biometric data was crucial for my therapy, but I really don't want you to suffer because of me..."

She apologized, yet her fingers tightened their grip on his sleeve, pulling him closer.

Christian frowned at me, his eyes darkening.

"Callie is already feeling incredibly guilty about this, Gwen. Don't look at her like that."

The doctor lowered his gaze, his eyes flashing with a fleeting look of pity for me.

Christian remained silent for a few seconds, as if weighing whether to keep up the lie.

Ultimately, he chose clinical pragmatism.

"Callie's trauma triggers are nearly identical to yours," he said calmly. "Your psychological responses provide the exact modeling data her treatment plan needs."

"Gwen, this isn't abuse. It's therapy."

I let out a dry, hollow laugh that tore at my throat.

"Then what about me?"

"Who is going to cure me?"

Christians frown deepened, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing his face.

"You're already much more stable than she is."

"You have a family. You have our marriage. You have me."

"Callie has absolutely nothing. Why do you have to be so incredibly hostile?"

Callie immediately grabbed his sleeve, weeping and shaking her head. "Christian, please, don't argue with Gwen because of me. I really don't mind. If Gwen doesn't want to do this, I can stop the treatment. I don't need to get better..."

Christian pulled her behind him protectively. "No one is stopping your treatment," he said, his voice dropping to a firm, unyielding register.

When he turned back to me, his patience was completely gone.

"Gwen, stop being childish."

"You're just participating in a study. Nothing actual is going to happen to you."

"Callie has been ill for years, and we're finally seeing a breakthrough. I won't let you ruin her progress right now."

I stared at him, forcing out every syllable.

"So my panic attacks, my sleepless nights, my bleeding wrists... to you, it's all just 'participation'?"

He didn't deny it.

At that moment, the final shred of hope in my chest went completely cold.

I reached down and ripped the IV needle straight out of the back of my hand.

A bead of dark red blood welled up and trickled down my fingers.

The doctor instinctively moved to help me, but I flinched away.

Christians expression darkened. "Where do you think you're going?"

I held onto the edge of the treatment chair to steady myself, my voice as faint as a passing breeze.

"Home."

"To pack my papers for the divorce."

My brother had already booked my flight.

In three days, I would have my signed divorce papers in hand, and I would be flying to Boston.

Christian looked at me as if I had just told a particularly ridiculous joke.

"Gwen, stop using divorce to threaten me."

"We both know you can't survive without me."

And for a long time, I had believed that too.

After my parents died, he was the one who carried me out of the psychiatric ward.

When I was terrified of the dark, he kept every light in the house burning through the night.

When the sound of screeching tires made me hyperventilate, he would cup his hands over my ears and whisper, "I'm here. I'm right here."

Back then, I truly believed he was my savior.

It took me three years to realize that the lifeline he threw me could easily be twisted into a noose around my neck.

I looked up at him and offered a quiet, peaceful smile.

"Then consider it a threat."

Christians face hardened.

He had likely never seen me like this before.

In the past, whenever my panic attacks struck in the dead of night, I would cling to his sleeve and beg him not to leave. If he so much as knit his brow, I would immediately let go, terrified of being a burden.

I had been so afraid of losing him.

So afraid that I didn't even dare to scream when I was in pain.

But now, the only thing I felt was a desperate urge to get away.

I dragged myself along the corridor, leaning against the wall for support.

Just as I reached the exit, Callies soft, breathless voice echoed from behind.

"Christian... my chest is so tight... I can't breathe..."

Christian spun around instantly.

He strode past me, bending down to lift her into his arms.

The movement was so practiced, so fluid, he must have done it a thousand times.

I stood frozen, watching him carry Callie past me.

The hem of her gown brushed against my skirta quiet, triumphant sweep.

As Christian walked by, he didn't even look at me. He only threw a single line over his shoulder.

"Go home and calm down."

"And don't ever let me hear you mention divorce again."

I watched his retreating back.

A memory from six months ago flashed in my mind.

I had suffered a severe seizure during a hypnosis session and crashed off the high treatment chair onto the floor.

The panicked nurse had dialed his number, sobbing.

When he finally arrived, his first words weren't of concern.

"Why wasn't anyone watching her?"

That day, I had split my forehead open, blood covering half my face.

He hadn't carried me.

Instead, he had simply instructed the orderly to wheel me back to my room.

Because Callie was scheduled for her first evaluation that afternoon, and he didn't want her to be traumatized by the sight of blood.

It turned out he knew exactly how to hold someone.

It was just that no matter how hard I fell, I was never worth bending down for.

I returned to the empty house alone.

He had chosen this estate himself, nestled in the quiet of the hills because he knew I couldn't stand loud noises.

He had promised me that once I healed, we would plant a row of white camellias in the courtyard.

But when I pushed the heavy iron gates open, the white camellias were gone.

In their place stood rows of bright, towering sunflowers.

Our housekeeper froze when she saw me standing in the driveway.

"Ma'am... I didn't expect you back so soon."

I stared at the blinding, aggressive yellow filling the yard, my voice barely a whisper.

"Who ordered this?"

The housekeeper lowered her head, avoiding my eyes.

"Miss Callie mentioned that she's spent too much time in sterile hospital rooms, and that sunflowers always cheer her up."

"Mr. Ward had the gardeners dig up the camellias yesterday."

A laugh bubbled up in my chest, bitter and hollow.

I remembered standing before those young camellia bushes months ago, smiling as I asked Christian:

"Do you think by the time they bloom, I'll finally be okay?"

He had stroked my hair gently and replied, "You will."

Now, the flowers hadn't even had the chance to bloom before they were ripped out by the roots.

I walked upstairs to gather my documents.

But the moment I opened our bedroom door, my feet glued to the floor.

Sitting on the nightstand was a strange, unfamiliar pill bottle.

And right next to it was Callie's soft cashmere scarf.

The cloying, sweet scent of her perfume had already seeped deep into our sheets.

I pulled open my closet, reaching for the small safe where I kept my papers.

The security lockbox was gone.

My passport, our marriage certificate, the heirloom my parents left me, and the visa documents I had prepared for Bostonall gone.

I turned and ran back downstairs, confronting the housekeeper.

"Where is my lockbox?"

The woman's face turned even paler.

"Mr. Ward... Mr. Ward took it."

"He said... he was worried you've been emotionally unstable lately, and he didn't want you doing anything reckless."

Standing in the foyer, a sudden, violent chill washed over me.

He had blocked my exit before I even knew I wanted to run.

My phone buzzed in my hand.

It was Christian.

His voice came through the receiver, calm and measured, as if we had spent the morning discussing nothing more than the weather.

"Are you home?"

I stared at the empty space in the closet.

"Where are my documents, Christian?"

A brief, heavy silence stretched over the line.

"You're not in the right headspace right now, Gwen. I'm keeping them safe for you temporarily."

"I won't let you make a decision you'll regret while you're highly emotional."

My vision swam, dark spots dancing at the edges.

"Leaving you is the only decision I will never regret."

I heard him sigh, a sound of patronizing patience, as if dealing with a petulant child.

"Stop this now."

"Callie had a rough afternoon, and I need to stay at the clinic with her tonight."

"Take your medication and go to sleep. I'll come home tomorrow and we can talk like adults."

I ended the call and let my knees buckle, sinking slowly onto the cold hardwood floor.

My stomach churned violently, and the bandage on my wrist began to bloom with fresh crimson.

The housekeeper cried out, reaching for her phone to call an ambulance, but I grabbed her arm.

"Don't."

I unlocked my phone and typed out a message to my brother, Declan.

"Christian took my passport and documents."

"I need replacements."

Declans call came through almost instantly.

His voice was cold as steel, vibrating with a quiet, lethal anger.

"Gwen, don't panic."

"I'm coming to get you tomorrow morning."

Early the next morning, the electronic lock on the front door beeped.

I expected Christian.

But the person who walked in was Callie.

She was wearing his black wool coat, her slender shoulders swallowed up by the heavy fabric.

She was carrying a cardboard box.

"Gwen."

"Christian asked me to come by and grab a few changes of clothes for him."

My eyes locked onto the coat she wore.

It was a custom piece I had commissioned for Christian's birthday last year.

Inside the left cuff, I had personally embroidered a tiny, elegant "G."

He had held me close that night and whispered that having my initial right against his wrist made him feel like I was holding his hand all day.

Now, it hung loosely off Callie's frail frame.

"Take what you need and leave," I said, my voice dead.

Callie walked into the walk-in closet, moving with an ease that suggested this was far from her first time here.

She slid open the second drawer of the vanity, confidently retrieving the luxury watch Christian wore most often.

Then she picked out a few of his tailored dress shirts.

"How do you know where everything is?" I asked suddenly.

Her hand paused over the drawer. She looked down, a small, subtle smile playing on her lips.

"Christian told me."

"He said he hates it when people touch his things, but that I don't count as 'people.'"

As if realizing she had crossed a line, she gasped softly and turned to look at me, wide-eyed.

"Gwen, I didn't mean it like that. Please don't be angry."

I didn't say a word.

Her eyes drifted to the nightstand.

Resting there was the only thing I had left of my parentsmy father's old pocket watch.

I lunged forward, slamming my hand down over hers.

"Don't touch that."

Callie flinched back violently, tears welling up in her eyes in an instant.

"I... I just saw it looked dusty and wanted to help you clean it..."

"I said, do not touch it."

She bit her lower lip, her voice shrinking to a pathetic whisper.

"Gwen, do you hate me that much?"

"I really never wanted to take Christian away from you."

"He's the one who said you could never survive without him. He said you're just throwing a tantrum."

"He said once you calm down, you'll come crawling right back to him anyway."

Every single word was like a needle.

Tiny, but piercing straight into my heart.

Before I could even open my mouth, she took a dramatic step backward.

Her hip caught the edge of the nightstand.

With a sharp clatter, the pocket watch was swept off the table and crashed onto the hardwood floor.

"Crack."

The delicate glass casing, already fractured from the accident years ago, shattered completely.

My mind went entirely blank.

That pocket watch was the last physical connection I had to my father.

On the night of the crash, his hand had been clamped around it.

When the rescue team finally handed his personal effects to me, the metal casing was still stained with his dried blood.

I fell to my knees, desperate to gather the pieces.

But before my fingertips could touch the shattered glass, Callie burst into loud, hysterical tears.

"I'm so sorry, Gwen! I didn't mean to! I swear I didn't mean to..."

Urgent footsteps echoed from the hallway.

Christian was back.

He burst through the door, his eyes immediately landing on Callie, who was sobbing against the wall.

Only then did his gaze drop to me, kneeling on the floor, bleeding from where my fingers had pressed into the broken glass of the watch.

"What did you do to her this time?"

The exact same accusation.

The exact same script.

I slowly lifted my head, my eyes locking onto his.

"She broke my father's watch."

Christian frowned, his eyes flicking to the shattered pieces on the floor for a fraction of a second.

"It's just an old watch."

"Callie didn't do it on purpose. Stop terrifying her."

"It's just an old watch."

I suddenly remembered the day of my father's funeral.

Christian had knelt beside me in the pouring rain, gently wiping the dirt off the metal casing of this very watch.

He had looked into my eyes and promised:

"Gwen, from now on, I will protect the things they left behind. I won't let anyone touch them."

Now, the girl who broke it was cowering behind his back.

And he called it "just an old watch."

I let out a soft laugh.

But not a single tear fell.

Callie whimpered, her hands clutching at him. "Christian, I really just wanted to help Gwen organize her things... She suddenly rushed at me, and I got so scared..."

Christian pulled her close, his voice cold as ice.

"Gwen, apologize to her."

"She suffers from severe trauma triggers. You shouldn't be provoking her."

I looked up at him.

My chest felt completely hollowed out, as if a vital organ had been ripped from my ribcage.

So Callie's triggers required the entire world to bend to her will.

But my grief, my nightmares, my parents' last memorythey were nothing but minor inconveniences in her treatment plan.

I looked down at the shards in my hand.

The sharp glass had sliced into my palm, dark red blood dripping onto the floorboards.

But I didn't let go.

"Christian," I whispered.

"Is it true that as long as she cries, I am always the one in the wrong?"

His eyes flickered, a sudden, fleeting moment of hesitation crossing his face.

But Callie let out a fragile cough, and his focus snapped right back to her.

"Stop being unreasonable."

I nodded slowly.

And stood up.

"Fine."

"I apologize."

A brief spark of triumph flashed in Callie's eyes before she quickly lowered her head again.

I walked over to her.

I reached out and placed the shattered halves of the pocket watch into her open palm.

"I'm sorry," I said, enunciating every single word.

"It's too old anyway. I wouldn't want it to dirty your hands."

Christian stared at me, his jaw clenched, as if he wanted to say something more.

But Callie suddenly gasped, clutching her chest, and slumped limply into his arms.

"Christian... I can't... I can't breathe..."

His expression turned to pure panic. He swept her up into his arms in one motion.

Before rushing out the door, he threw one last freezing glare at me.

"Reflect on what you've done today, Gwen."

The heavy bedroom door slammed shut.

The house finally fell into silence.

Thirty minutes later, Declan arrived.

When he saw the dried blood on my hand and my deathly pale face, his eyes went red with fury.

But he didn't ask a single question.

He simply took off his heavy winter coat, wrapped it around my shoulders, and held me tight.

"Gwen," he whispered. "Let's go home."

The car sped toward the private airfield.

Before boarding, I turned back to look at the skyline of the city one last time.

The city where I had spent three years of marriage, slowly allowing myself to be disassembled piece by piece.

The cabin door slid shut.

As the private jet taxied into the night sky, I finally closed my eyes.

From this moment on, Christian could never trap me again.