Before I could respond, he threw himself onto the couch, crossed his legs, and jabbed a finger at the stunned security guards.
"What are you standing around for? Get out! This is my house!"
I'd had enough. I stepped forward and slapped him hard across the face.
"You must be drunk out of your mind! Fifteen more days and the cooling-off period ends. We. Are. Divorced."
The slap didn't sober him up. He froze for a moment.
Then he looked at me, eyes bloodshot, like a viper coiling to strike.
I kept my expression cold, but my heart was pounding as he advanced toward me, step by step.
One punch landed. Then another.
The security guards finally snapped out of it and pulled him back.
I called the police.
When the officers arrived and learned we weren't technically divorced yet, they exchanged a look.
"Ma'am, you should get your injuries documented," one said. "But honestly, couples fight. It's normal. Calling the police over every little thing wastes resources."
When he saw I wasn't backing down, he added, "Besides, didn't you hit him too? You want me to take you both in?"
I said nothing. I watched Clement flash them a grin as he walked them to the door.
Then he turned back to me, smirking, waving his fists.
Fine.
I smiled slowly and walked toward him.
Left hook. Right hook. Every blow landed solid.
Clement howled like a wounded animal.
I'm an only child. My parents made sure I'd never be anyone's victim.
Growing up, my dad enrolled me in every martial art that looked useful for self-defense—taekwondo, kung fu, Muay Thai. If it was featured on TV as effective, I was signed up the next week.
My training was scattered, sure, but it was more than enough to handle Clement.
