UNBEARABLE WIFE

I can't keep doing this.

The constant emotional whiplash, the mind games, the way he kisses me like I matter, then pretends I don't exist the next morning.

And now, on top of it all, I feel like absolute shit.

I wake up with a splitting headache, my body lethargic, my stomach twisting in ways I don't understand. For the past few days, nausea has been my constant companion, along with a weird aversion to certain smells.

When Sofia made eggs this morning, I nearly threw up at the scent alone. It must be the stress he is giving me.

And the exhaustion? God. I feel like I could sleep for days.

Since the kiss, he's been colder than ever.

He barely acknowledges my presence. No eye contact. No sarcastic remarks. Nothing. It's like I ceased to exist. I am so done with his hot and cold attitude. Enough is enough. I get to choose how l rule my life. I won't let him walk all over me again.

And if there's one thing I refuse to be, it's invisible.

I march straight into his office, pushing open the heavy doors without knocking.

He barely glances up from his laptop.

"Did I say you could enter?" His voice is low, indifferent.

That only fuels my rage.

"I want a divorce."

This time, he does look up.

But his expression is unreadable, his jaw tightening just slightly.

"How original." His tone is clipped, disinterested.

Like I'm some bored wife throwing a tantrum.

I clench my fists. I will not let him ignore me.

"I'm serious, Brandon. I want out. I want my life back."

He leans back in his chair, twirling a pen between his fingers, as if I didn't just drop a bomb in the middle of the room.

"And where do you plan to go?" His voice is mocking.

I lift my chin. I refuse to let him intimidate me.

"Anywhere that's not here."

He chuckles. But there's no amusement in his eyes—only cold calculation.

"You think it's that easy?"

"I don't think, Brandon. I know. We're done. I don't love you. You don't love me. This is pointless."

I half expect him to lash out. To throw something. To explode the way he always does when things don't go his way.

But instead—

He just stands up.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

And when he speaks, his voice is calm. Controlled. Dangerous.

"You don't get to leave me, Alexia."

A shiver runs down my spine.

I should be scared.

I should back down.

But instead, I step closer, looking him dead in the eyes.

"Watch me."

For the briefest second, something flickers in his gaze—something raw, something almost desperate.

But just as quickly, it vanishes.

His face hardens.

"Isn't that what you are good at?" He snears.

His voice turns low dangerously low.

"You don't have any right to make demands to me. And you don't get to walk scot free after what you did five yrs ago." That hits a nerve. But am done apologizing to him. Am not his slave. Am him god damn wife!! I storm out of his room without saying w word.

Brandon wants to ignore me? Fine.

Brandon wants to pretend I don't exist? Great.

But if he thinks I'm going to sit here like a good little housewife while he continues his power trip, he's sorely mistaken.

If he won't let me leave, I'll make his life a living nightmare.

Brandon is a creature of habit.

He wakes up at exactly 5:30 AM, showers, drinks his obnoxious black coffee, and heads to work without fail.

So today, I make sure to wake up first.

By the time he steps into the bathroom, I've already set my trap.

The moment he turns the shower on—

Ice. Cold. Water.

"What the f—?!"

A very satisfying yelp echoes from inside.

I grin, sipping my tea.

A few minutes later, he storms out, dripping wet, a towel slung around his hips, his dark hair sticking to his forehead.

"What the hell did you do to my water?" he growls.

I blink innocently. "Oh? Was it too cold? I read somewhere that it's good for circulation."

His jaw tightens, muscles flexing.

"Fix it."

I sip my tea louder. "No."

Brandon's eye twitches.

He takes a slow step forward, towering over me.

"Alexia."

I smirk. "Brandon."

A muscle in his jaw ticks. He's debating whether murdering me is worth the prison sentence.

I hold my ground.

Then, with a frustrated growl, he storms past me, grabbing his backup suit.

One point for me.

I might not be allowed to leave, but I still have access to his world.

And today? Brandon is in for a surprise.

I wait until he leaves before calling his assistant, Linda.

"Hi, Linda! It's Alexia."

She sounds nervous. "M-Mrs. Gracia? Uh—how can I help you?"

"I'm redecorating Brandon's office! I need you to remove everything."

A pause.

"Everything?"

"Everything."

Linda hesitates, but no one argues with the CEO's wife.

By the time Brandon arrives at work, his office is completely empty.

No desk. No chair. No papers. Just four walls and his anger issues.

I get a text an hour later.

Brandon: You have three seconds to explain yourself.

I smirk.

Me: Oh, did you not like my surprise? I thought you needed a fresh start.

Brandon:you think this means anything sweet heart?

That pisses me off.

By the time Brandon gets home, I've saved the best for last.

The entire house is pink.

Pink curtains.

Pink couch covers.

Pink flowers in every goddamn vase.

Even the towels in the bathroom are fluffy and pink.

Brandon walks in. Stops. Stares.

Let me see you ignore that?

Then he turns very, very slowly to look at me.

"What. The. Hell. Is. This?"

I grin. "Welcome home, my love."

His vein pops.

He steps forward, slow, controlled, terrifying.

"Fix it."

I smirk. "No."

A dangerous silence.

Then, he grabs his phone.

"Sofia. Change everything back—"

"Oh, Sofia's off for the weekend."

He pauses.

I bat my lashes.

"It's just you. And me. And our brand-new pink paradise."

Brandon breathes in sharply.

Then exhales.

He's calculating murder again.

Instead, he rips off his tie, tosses it onto the pink couch, and stalks past me.

But just before he disappears up the stairs, he says—

"Enjoy this little war while it lasts, Alexia."

His voice is low, dark, and filled with promise.

A promise of payback.

I shiver.

But my smirk stays.

"Oh, I plan to."