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He didn’t apologize. He didn’t even look away. He just held my gaze, a triumphant sneer playing on his lips, as if he’d finally said the quiet part out loud. It wasn’t a joke. It was pure venom, aimed directly at me, a public execution of my dignity.
I managed to mumble something, some feeble attempt to deflect, but the words caught in my throat. The rest of the dinner was a blur of forced smiles and strained conversation. I could barely breathe. Was this the man I married? The one who always told me my work at home, supporting his career, raising our future, was invaluable? The one who insisted I didn’t need to return to my own demanding job because he could provide for us both? “You’re my partner,” he’d said so many times. “Your happiness is my priority.”
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