Page 66 of King of Kings

It’s been a week since I heard from Knox. Seven days of pure torture. I’ve tried to distract myself with work, but even that isn’t helping anymore. I just want a chance to explain to him what happened. Why I still have a husband, even though I’ve tried everything to rid myself of him.

It’s after midnight, and Bradley still isn’t home from work. We’ve been married for six months, and it’s the same thing every night. He insists that he’s working late but comes home smelling like perfume. Is it normal that it doesn’t really bother me? I don’t mind that he’s out having sex with other women, because that means he’s not trying to have sex with me. How long am I going to punish myself and stay in this loveless marriage? I know I promised my parents I’d do the right thing and marry him to help our family, but does it make me selfish if I just want to fall in love and be with someone that makes me feel something?

“Sophia?” I hear Bradley’s voice carry through the house.

Shit. I was hoping I’d be asleep before he got home this time. He doesn’t usually bother me if I’m asleep.

“I’m up here,” I call out.

There’s no sense in trying to hide the fact that I’m awake.

Five minutes later, he comes stumbling into our bedroom. His suit is wrinkled, and he reeks of alcohol.

“Have you been drinking?” I ask, scrunching my nose up.

“Have you been drinking?” He mocks me, ripping his tie off and tossing it on the bed. “So what if I have? What are you going to do about it?” he asks, slurring his words.

“Nothing. I don’t care if you were drinking. I was just asking,” I say, moving to the other side of the room.

Something feels off tonight.

“I fucked a girl in the parking lot of the bar,” he sneers.

His words don’t bother me. They should though. Shouldn’t they?

“You don’t even fucking care. I knew you wouldn’t. You won’t fuck me, so I get it from wherever I can,” he yells, moving around the bed––closer to me.

“I think you need a cold shower. You’re obviously angry about something,” I say, putting my hands up in defense.

“You’re a fucking bitch. You don’t give a shit about me, and you never have. But guess what? You’re mine. I’ll ruin your fucking life if you ever try to leave me,” he spits out, grabbing my wrists.

“Let go of me, Bradley,” I say, trying to pull my arms away from him.

“Not until you give me what I want. What I deserve. I’ve been putting up with this shit for six fucking months. I deserve it.”

“You don’t deserve anything. Let me go!” I yell.

He shoves me against the nightstand next to our bed. I feel the corner of the wood dig into my back.

“Don’t talk to me like that, you fucking bitch!” he yells, stepping into my space, his face in front of mine. .

“You’re hurting me,” I cry out.

I watch him pull his hand back, and I don’t have time to react before he’s smacking me across the face.

My hand flies to my face, cupping my cheek.

“I told you not to talk to me like that,” he sneers.

I’ve never been scared of Bradley, but I am right now. He’s drunk and has no idea what he’s doing.

A knock at my door pulls me from my awful memories. That was the first time Bradley put his hands on me, but it wasn’t the last. It took three times before I finally got the nerve to pack everything I had and move back to California––without telling any of my friends or family where I was going.

I filed for divorce and had him served with papers that I’m still waiting on him to sign.

A second knock on the door makes me realize I’m still standing in the middle of my apartment.

“I’m coming,” I yell out, pulling the door open.

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