Monster Billionaire Husband, Let Me Go

Chapter 3: Shattered Reflection

Crack—

I jolted awake to the sound of a phone smashing against the wall.

Percy Sullivan stood in the chaos—splinters of an expensive hardwood chair underfoot, shards of our flat-screen TV still sparking.

He held up a mirror and forced it in front of my face.

My skin—bare and bruised—was mottled with red welts, like crushed rose petals scattered across flesh.

"Filthy," he said, voice laced with venom.

"Disgusting."

I instinctively curled in on myself, but his next words hit harder than any blow:

"I hate you."

"Get out."

That day, I was running a high fever. My legs trembled so badly I could barely stay upright.

But Percy had slipped into one of his episodes and vanished, so I dragged my aching body out to find him.

From noon to midnight, I searched every place he'd ever mentioned in passing—the piano room, the quiet café on Fifth, the old concert hall downtown.

At 1 a.m., gasping for air as I leaned against the doorframe of a music lounge, I finally saw him.

He was standing under the warm glow of a streetlamp, talking to a girl with soft dimples.

"It's so rare to meet someone who truly gets music," she said, smiling up at him.

The light stretched her shadow across the pavement. "You'll come to the next concert with me, won't you?"

So that was where he'd been.

His phone had died. He'd gotten lost. And this girl—Emily Thompson—had brought him back.

They stood in the courtyard talking about Chopin and Mozart, pieces I couldn't even pronounce, let alone understand.

His eyes sparkled as he spoke. I hadn't seen that look in years.

I stayed hidden in the shadows of the foyer, feeling like an outsider in my own home.

Then the butler finally cleared his throat. "Young Master, Mrs. Sullivan has been waiting all night."

Emily blinked, startled. "And she is...?"

"My wife," Percy said flatly.

Then he added, "A family arrangement."

"I hate it."

Those three words cut deeper than anything he'd ever said.

Not long after, Emily became an intern at his studio.

On his birthday, I gave him a pair of limited-edition over-ear headphones—something I'd pre-ordered six months ago, something that cost me three months of freelance pay.

He looked me in the eye and flicked open a lighter.

The acrid stench of burning plastic filled the room.

And then I saw it—

A sleek silver ring on his finger.

Emily's gift.

The next day, Mr. Sullivan told me to retrieve documents from the study.

I froze. Percy had made it clear—no one was allowed in that room. Not even me.

But I did as I was told and handed the files directly to his secretary.

He still found out.

The study's security cameras were synced to his phone.

When he got home, he exploded.

A wild animal let out of its cage.

"She gets to go in, but I don't?" I said, pointing at Emily's figure on the surveillance footage.

"She touches the piano. She flips through your sheet music. Aren't those things filthy too?"

Percy's eyes narrowed, his voice a blade: "She understands."

Just two words.

And they paralyzed me.

A dizzy wave of low blood sugar hit, and I stumbled, my foot accidentally crossing the threshold into the study.

Percy roared, jabbing his finger at me:

"Get out!"

"This is my house! Not yours!"

When I married into this family at twenty, I thought I'd finally found a home.

But now I knew—without my name on the deed, I was just another passing guest.

I looked at the wall calendar, each date circled in red ink.

Engaged at fifteen. Married at twenty.

Ten years.

A decade of silent endurance, of debt repaid with humiliation, of love given and never returned.

It was enough.

"Percy," I rasped, my voice rough and barely my own, "let's get a divorce."