A few minutes later, the door creaked open. Charlotte walked in, closing the distance between us until she was looking down at me.

"You saw the text, didn't you?" She smirked.

So, it was her.

"Whether I saw it or not... does it matter?" I looked up at her.

Dark, unmistakable hickeys marred her neck. She didn't bother to hide them.

"Your husband treats you like garbage." Charlotte sneered. "Are you still going to cling to him shamelessly?"

My gaze remained calm. "I never clung to him. If he had been honest about you two, I would have divorced him in a heartbeat."

Charlotte laughed, a harsh sound. "Liar. If you weren't clinging to him, why does he refuse every time I ask him to divorce you?"

My frown deepened. "He refuses?"

"He loves *me*." She hissed, her face twisting with jealousy. "You must have something on him. That's the only reason he keeps you around."

A flicker of confusion rose in my chest. Walter didn't want a divorce?

That didn't make sense.

Before I could speak, Charlotte suddenly threw herself to the floor.

"Jessica!" She wailed, her voice trembling with fake terror. "I only came to bring you some soup! Why would you push me?"

*Bang.*

The door flew open. Walter stood there, his face thunderous.

In a split second, I understood Charlotte's game.

"Walter, I—"

He didn't let me finish. He strode across the room, grabbed the bowl of steaming soup from the table, and hurled it.

Not at the floor.

At me.

The scalding liquid splashed across my face and chest.

I screamed. The heat seared my skin, the pain instantaneous and blinding.

Walter faltered for a second, his eyes widening as he saw the red burns blooming on my skin. But he quickly steeled himself, his expression turning to ice.

"Jessica Harding," he growled, his voice vibrating with menace. "You'd better pray she's okay. If you hurt her, I will destroy you."

Without another word, he scooped Charlotte Matthews into his arms and strode out.

The room plunged back into silence.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the chaotic mess he'd left behind. Minutes bled into each other. I didn't move. Couldn't. Not until the sharp trill of an alarm clock shattered the quiet.

A glance at the nightstand. A reminder I had set days ago.

*Right.* Today was our third wedding anniversary.

Walter Dickerson had promised me an unforgettable holiday.