His Obsession, Her Agony

"I want a divorce, Ethan."

The words came out, quiet but steady, hanging in the sterile air as my husband, Ethan, stopped swirling the amber liquid in his glass. He didn' t look at me, but at my reflection in the dark, floor-to-ceiling window.

"No," he stated, his eyes cold and empty, "You' re my wife, Autumn. You don' t get to leave."

I clutched my suitcase, my knuckles white, heart a frantic drum. He smiled, a slow, cruel curve of his lips, a monster I now saw clearly. "Aren' t you? I own this house. I own the clothes you' re wearing. I own your career, what' s left of it."