Osagie_Aromose

The clock ticked past midnight, each second echoing like a hammer in the hollow silence of the apartment. Rain lashed against the windows, the storm outside mirroring the tempest brewing in Emily’s chest. She sat rigid on the couch, her fingers digging into the upholstery, eyes fixed on the door. David’s keys jingled in the lock, his laughter—warm and carefree—seeping through the wood before he did.  

He stumbled in, tie askew, the sharp tang of bourbon on his breath. But it wasn’t the alcohol that made her stomach churn. It was the cloying sweetness of jasmine perfume clinging to his collar—a scent that didn’t belong to her.  

“Where have you been?” Emily’s voice trembled, though she’d rehearsed the question a hundred times in her head.  

David froze, his smile dissolving. “Work ran late. You know how it is.”  

“Work ends at six, David. It’s *midnight*.” She stood, her legs unsteady. “And since when do you wear lipstick to the office?”  

His hand flew to the smudge of crimson on his white sleeve—a shade too bold, too *alive* for the muted tones of their marriage. His face hardened. “You’re imagining things.”  

“Am I?” She stepped closer, the jasmine scent now suffocating. “Or is it *Jane* from accounting? The one who ‘just needs your help’ every time I call?”  

His laugh was a cold blade. “You’re paranoid. Always picking fights—”  

“Paranoid?” Her voice cracked. “You haven’t touched me in months! You come home smelling like *her*, lying to my face—”  

“Enough!” He slammed his fist on the table, a vase rattling. “I’m tired of your nagging! What do you even do all day? Sit here and wait to accuse me?”  

The words struck deeper than any slap. Emily’s breath hitched. “I gave up my career for you. For *us*—”  

“Us?” He sneered. “There *is* no ‘us.’ Just you, digging through my things like a desperate—”  

She didn’t see his hand move. The crack of his palm against her cheek split the air, her head snapping sideways. She stumbled, clutching the wall as the taste of copper bloomed on her tongue.  

David loomed over her, his eyes wild, foreign. “You… you pushed me to this,” he hissed, grabbing his coat. “Clean yourself up. You’re pathetic.”  

The door slammed. Emily slid to the floor, tears mingling with the blood on her lip. Outside, thunder roared. But beneath the pain, a spark ignited—a flicker of defiance. Her gaze landed on the shattered vase, its jagged pieces glinting in the lamplight.  

*Pathetic.* The word echoed, twisting into a vow.  

She would rise. Not for him. Not for “us.”  

But to make him regret the day he underestimated the woman he’d reduced to ashes.  

-**Chapter One: The Scent of Betrayal (Continued)**  

The air hung thick with venom. David’s chest heaved, his earlier bravado fraying at the edges. Emily wiped her bleeding lip with the back of her hand, her eyes blazing.  

“You think Jane *wants* you?” she spat, her voice a razor. “Or does she just pity the man who needs to steal confidence from a bottle and affairs to feel alive?”  

David’s jaw twitched. “Shut up.”  

“Why? Because it’s true?” She laughed, cold and sharp. “You’re a cliché, David. A middle-aged fraud in a tailored suit. Even your *precious* promotion—did you earn it, or did you cry your way into it like you did when your father called you a disappointment?”  

He lunged forward, but she sidestepped, her words relentless. “Jane must be desperate. Or blind. Tell me, does she know you couldn’t even—”  

“I said *shut up*!” he roared, his composure crumbling.  

“Couldn’t even *what*?” she taunted, stepping closer. “Finish a sentence? A marriage? Or is that why you’re so bad in—”  

The slap exploded like a gunshot.  

Emily’s head whipped sideways, her body crumpling to the floor. The world blurred—a kaleidoscope of shattered glass and spinning shadows. Her cheek burned, but worse was the silence that followed, broken only by her shaky breaths.

Ex-wife Revenge: From Grass to Grace

Behind Emily, the front door groaned shut, its echo rebounding off the unfinished walls of the lobby. Half‑expecting the house to shake her back out, she lingered with her palm pressed to the door handle. Maybe some foul stuff—rotten secrets—were seeping from the crown molding along with lemon cleaner.

Emily murmured, *ma,* spotting Mrs. Maddison. On the living room sofa, Mrs. Maddison coiled like a buzzard watching dead roadkill. The woman slouched, talons entwined around a teacup turned stone‑cold.

"Empty hound," Mrs. Maddison hissed, glancing upward. "Two years. Still empty. What is your use?" The words hung, jagged. Though half‑moons blossomed, Emily kept her voice flat and clawed her nails into her hands. "David and I haven't even—"

"*Haven't*?" The cup crashed onomatopoeically. The language on my boy here—a genuine wife recalls things. Her lips curled sour like curdled milk, even if it's *borrowed* seed.

Emily swallowed deeply. *Borrowed.* The implication—that David's relationships were her fault—stuck like shards of glass in her stomach. She spun toward the stairs, her legs as heavy as sandbags.

"Where're you slinking off to?" Mrs. Maddison staggered upward, her voice screeching. "Look at me when I'm talking!" Emily kept ascending, every step a battle. Behind her, the harpy raged furiously. "Useless! No baby, no backbone; no wonder David strays!"

An upstairs door thumped. David staggered out, his shades darkening his eyes, his shirt undone. "Exactly what is the racket?"

"Your *wife*," Mrs. Maddison sneered, as if she believed she was above respect.

David's blood‑shot gaze settled on Emily, paralyzed midway up the stairs. "Ready to apologize now?"

Emily laughed barkily. "*Apologize*? Following her dirt? Following *you*?"

He strolled heavily, his breath reeking of last night's whiskey. "You know she is merely—"

"Old? Cruel? Yeah," Emily shot back, meeting his gaze with a tattered voice. "And you've let her claw at me for years. You never stopped her when she trashed my family. You always let her keep blaming me with *your* untruths." Now she poked a finger at her cheek, makeup covering the bruise. "You let her twist the knife after hitting me?"

Mrs. Maddison sniffed. "Drama queen. If you had—" gave him a child—" Emily's shout strangled the space. "*Enough!*" She turned to David in frustration. "You won't even get tested. Why are you so scared they'll discover *you* are the defective component?"

David's face turned beet‑red. "You are cracked."

Her laughter broke like old asphalt. "I am? Or are you simply too *pathetic* to face it?"

The word—*pathetic*—hung like a weapon from last night's battle. David's fist twitched; Emily was already pushing past him and running for the door. Mrs. Maddison laughed. "Let her rot, David. She's garbage, letting herself out."

Outside, the sun was fierce and glaring. Emily stumbled to the gutter, her lungs heaving. Behind her, the house towered, its gilded falsehoods ripping at the seams.

"*Pathologically*," she mouthed, her knuckles white. "Not only is he here, but I am also far from perfect."

They were toxic. And she— a taxi's horn blared, and Emily pulled herself away from the road.

Fire blasted from the florist's window across the street, golden faces tilted defiantly toward heaven.

She used her sleeve to clean her sappy face. Wings fluttered somewhere—merely something wild, gnawing free from the earth, not a phoenix.

Chapter 3: The Cruelty of Blood