Page 8 of My Ruthless Husband

He doesn’t answer just carries me to the bed and lowers me down carefully, brushing the hair from my face as he does. Then he exits the bedroom and returns in a few seconds with a glassof water. He hands me the pills and the glass and watches me expectantly.

I need to do something. I need to act fast if I don’t want to end up in my gilded cage again, trapped by his rules. I can feel my freedom slipping through my fingers like sand. The thought of being locked away, controlled like an object, makes me dizzy with anxiety. He’s already shown me how easily he can take everything from me. I can’t let that happen again. “I’m hungry,” I blurt.

He narrows his eyes. “You skipped dinner?”

Heat rushes to my face. His disapproval makes me feel like a child rather than a grown woman. “I didn’t have an appetite.”

He examines me for a beat too long then relents. “I’ll order room service.” When I nod, he cups my chin. “And then you will do as you’re told.”

It takes a lot of effort to nod again. He bends down and presses a soft kiss to my brow before turning and leaving the room.

Staring at his retreating back, I make a vow to myself. No matter what, I refuse to go back to that life again. I can’t—won’t—let that happen.

I tighten my fingers around the pills as a plan begins to form in my head.

I’m running out of time, running out of choices. The plan in my head is reckless.Tooreckless but what else do I have left? Every option feels like a dead end, and the walls are closing in tighter with each passing second. There’s no safe way out, no easy escape.

This plan… is risky. It’s insane. It’s dangerous. But I’m so damn desperate that it’s the only thing I can hold onto. If I don’t do this, if I don’t take this risk, then I’ll be trapped forever.

You left me no choice, husband.

Chapter Three

Four years ago

My eyes scan the hall as I take a step back. Then one more, hoping like hell nobody catches me sneaking out of my own birthday party.

I turned eighteen today. And Dad threw a huge party to celebrate it. He personally appointed the best planners to decorate our mansion. Not only that, he invited countless people. From his business associates to Hollywood celebrities he likes to mingle with, he invited them all.

It’s safe to say that he spent a fortune to make my day special. And I am sneaking away, leaving all this behind.

I take a cautious step back, merging with the shadows. As soon as I'm out of view, the forced smile I’ve worn for the past two hours melts away.

It’s tiring. To pretend. I can’t do it anymore. Because not one person who’s present here really cares about me. Except for my dad. I crane my neck to find him in the sea of the ridiculously rich people.

A genuine smile lifts the corner of my lips when I spot him. Standing tall in a black tuxedo with a flute of champaign in hand, Dad talks to a group of men surrounding him. At fifty-five he looks years younger. All thanks to the strict fitness regimen and disciplined lifestyle he’s adhered to. The gray hair only makes him more handsome.

Christopher Gibson—my father—commands a level of respect in the business world that most could only dream of. A multi-billionaire with a reputation for being powerful, and precise.

But to me, he’s simply Dad—the man who’s always made sure I felt safe, loved, and cared for, even if it meant doing things I didn’t ask for. Like these grand gatherings. He hosts them, filling our home with strangers, because he’s convinced I need a bigger social circle.

He can’t seem to accept that I’m a shy introvert, his total opposite. He thinks I’m lonely. But I’m not. I’m perfectly content with my life. I’ve always had everything I needed in my own little world. Still, that doesn’t stop my father. He believes my lack of a social life is something he can fix, something he’s responsible for.

He still believes my loneliness is his fault. He thinks that the seven years he spent avoiding me after my mother’s death shaped me into the introverted person I am today. And maybe he’s right. Back then, I was just a baby, completely unaware of why my father—my only living parent—refused to see me, hold me, or even acknowledge that I existed. But now, I understand.

My mother, his wife, died giving birth to me. I was the baby who took her life, the reason she wasn’t here anymore. He never said those words to me, but he didn’t have to. His actions spoke for him. In those early years, he couldn’t bring himself to look at me because every time he did, all he saw was the person who took her away. So, he stayed away, drowning himself in his work while I was left to be raised by nannies and housekeepers.

For seven years, I grew up in a house full of people but still felt completely alone. Birthdays were the hardest. He never forgot them, not once, and he made sure I had everything a child could dream of—extravagant gifts, expensive dolls, even a pony once. But none of it ever mattered to me. I didn’t want any of those things. I just wanted him. I wanted my dad to be there, to tell me he loved me, to hold me and make me feel like I wasn’t some awful mistake. But he didn’t.

Even after all these years I still remember how I used to act out, throwing tantrums just to force him to notice me.

I didn’t understand it back then, why he ignored me so completely. He barely glanced my way, no matter what I did. I used to watch him smile and laugh with his business partners and their families when they came over. Especially with the kids. It stung. He could show them warmth, but not me. I was invisible to him unless I misbehaved. Because even if it meant being scolded or punished, those moments of his attention felt like a lifeline.

It was when I was eight that everything shifted. It wasn’t anything grand or sudden gesture of affection. He simply allowed me to sit with him in his study. I still don’t know why he said yes that day. Maybe he was too busy to care or too distracted to refuse. All he did was nod when I asked timidly if I could stay while he worked. But for me, that single nod was monumental.

I sat quietly on the floor, careful not to make a sound as he worked. With crayons and paper clutched in my tiny hands, I was so happy.

My heart felt light in years. I was determined to make something special for him—a picture of the two of us. I could’ve simply given him one of the hundreds I made over the years but I wanted to make him a new one.

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