Three years of marriage, and Morton had never once touched me willingly.
On our wedding night, I'd come out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel and slipped my arms around him from behind. He'd flinched away in disgust and told me to keep my distance.
Later, I tried wearing lingerie and sliding under his covers. He didn't even glance at me. He just rolled over, putting his back to me, and fell asleep.
No matter how hard I tried to please him, he was unmoved. A stone wall would have been warmer.
It wasn't until last year, at a gala where he'd drunk himself blind, that he mistook me for Zara.
That night, he pressed me into the mattress and didn't stop until dawn.
The memory of my clothes being torn hit me like a slap.
By the time I came back to my senses, I'd already struck Morton hard across the face.
He went rigid. The shock in his eyes curdled into white-hot rage.
"You think I wanted to touch you? If you hadn't spent the last three years following me around like a dog, I wouldn't even stomach looking at you!"
"In my heart, you're not worth Zara's little finger!"
He kicked over the coffee table and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls shook.
That night, my phone wouldn't stop buzzing.
At first, Zara just sent messages to taunt me.
Morton got drunk and won't leave my place. What can I do?
You've been chasing him like a lovesick puppy for years, and you still can't make him love you? I'm embarrassed for you.
He can't get over me. Guess you just don't have what it takes. You couldn't compete with me in college, and nothing's changed.
When I didn't respond, she sent photos. Morton, shirtless, asleep in her bed beside her.
What a sad excuse for a wife. Can't even keep your own man satisfied.
I looked at those shameless photos and those poisonous words, and I felt nothing. Not a ripple. Not a sting. Just stillness, like the surface of a lake after the last stone has already been thrown.
That night, for the first time in a long while, I slept soundly.
The next morning, it was a phone call that jolted me awake.
My coworker's voice was frantic. "Viola, someone's poaching your clients! Get to the office, now!"
Confused, I rushed in and found the lobby buried in roses.
Zara was nestled against Morton's chest like a helpless little bird, her smile dripping with satisfaction.
Morton glanced at me, then deliberately wrapped his arm around Zara's waist.