Chapter 3: Papers Signed, Chains Broken

Before heading back to the Carter house, I stopped by a law office and printed out divorce papers.

The receptionist barely looked at me as she handed over the forms. The lawyer’s office smelled like stale coffee and old paper. I signed my name with a steady hand.

Then I sent another message to that number.

I typed faster this time, not bothering to reread.

“No need to wait a week. I’ll leave in two days.”

I hit send and felt lighter. The future was still uncertain, but at least it was mine.

Back at the Carter estate, I sat on the sofa in a daze.

The house was silent, the ticking of the grandfather clock the only sound. I stared at my hands, trying to picture what life would look like on the other side.

For once, Jackson came home early.

I heard the garage door rumble open, his heavy footsteps on the hardwood. He paused in the entryway, outlined by the last light of evening.

He stood in the entryway, meeting my gaze.

His eyes searched mine, looking for something—regret, fear, anything. I gave him nothing.

It was like looking at my old self.

I saw the woman I used to be—eager, hopeful, always waiting for him to come home. She felt like a stranger now.

After work, I’d sit in the living room late into the night, waiting for my husband to come home.

I’d watch the headlights sweep across the wall, hoping each one was his. The disappointment was always the same.

I’d smile and greet him, carefully taking off his coat and shoes.

“Honey, was today tiring? I learned a new massage technique—want to try it?”

I could still hear my own voice, bright and desperate. I wanted so badly to be needed.

All these years, aside from teaching dance at the studio, the rest of my time revolved around him.

My world had shrunk to the size of this house, this marriage. I barely recognized myself anymore.

Day after day, never once did he show me a kind face.

The kindness I craved was always just out of reach, dangled like a carrot I could never catch.

Now, seeing it all from a distance, I realized how foolish I’d been.

The clarity was almost painful. I wondered how long I’d been sleepwalking through my own life.

When I didn’t react, Jackson frowned.

He hated being ignored, hated losing control. His frown deepened, lines etching into his forehead.

“What are you thinking? Planning to run away?”

His words were sharp, but I almost laughed. The idea that I needed a plan to leave was almost funny now.

A real, bitter laugh bubbled up, but I swallowed it down. No need to give him the satisfaction.

“If I wanted to run, what would you do?”

My voice was calm, almost curious. I wanted to see what he’d say.

He walked over, pushed me down onto the sofa, smoothly changing the subject.

He was always quick to redirect, to take control of the conversation. He pressed me into the cushions, looming over me.

“If you don’t like your son, let’s have a daughter. Daughters are sweeter and can keep you company. That way, life in the Carter house might be a bit easier for you.”

The suggestion was so absurd I almost choked. Like a daughter would fix everything. As if a baby was a consolation prize.

When I married into the Carter family, the staff saw how indifferent Jackson was to me and, because I was so quiet, they never took me seriously. All the nasty, backbreaking chores landed on me.

I’d scrubbed floors, cooked meals, folded laundry until my hands ached. The staff barely spoke to me, treating me like I was one of them—except with even less respect.

Back then, I loved Jackson deeply and never once complained to him.

I thought suffering in silence was proof of my devotion. I was wrong.

He saw my situation but only watched coldly from the sidelines.

He never intervened, never offered a kind word. I was invisible to him, except when he needed something.

I snapped back to the present as he yanked off my robe.

His hands were rough, his touch demanding. The room felt colder, the air thick with something I didn’t want.

His kisses fell on my skin.

They were harsh, more punishment than affection. I stared at the ceiling, waiting for it to be over.

Fierce and domineering, tinged with punishment.

Every touch was a reminder of who held the power. I felt nothing but a dull ache.

No matter how he tried to provoke me, I felt nothing.

It was like my body had shut down, gone somewhere else. I was just a shell, going through the motions.

Turns out, when you don’t love someone, your body just shuts down.

It was a strange kind of freedom, not caring anymore. I couldn’t be hurt if I felt nothing.

Jackson got bored and climbed off me.

He rolled away, frustrated. I watched him, detached, as he tried to make sense of my indifference.

“Autumn, I know your body. You shouldn’t react like this.”

His voice was accusatory, like my lack of response was some kind of betrayal.

He gripped my chin, studying me.

His fingers dug into my jaw, forcing me to meet his gaze. I stared back, unblinking.

“Tell me, did you sleep with another man?”

The question was ridiculous, but I saw the paranoia in his eyes. He needed to believe it wasn’t him.

Jackson loved to play around, but he was a germaphobe—he couldn’t stand the thought of any woman he’d slept with being with someone else.

The double standard was laughable. He could cheat, but I was supposed to stay pure.

There was a security guard at the studio who liked watching me dance. When Jackson caught him, he had the boss fire him on the spot and even got him arrested for harassment.

The man had barely spoken to me, but that was enough for Jackson. He wanted control, even over my admirers.

I bit my lip, letting out a humiliated laugh.

The sound was sharp, bitter. I wanted him to feel how ridiculous this all was.

“Yeah, just like you think. I’ve slept with every man at the dance studio. Are you going to have them all thrown in jail?”

The words tasted like poison, but I spit them out anyway. I wanted to see how far he’d go.

Jackson narrowed his eyes, his voice rough.

His jaw clenched, eyes flashing with anger. He didn’t like being challenged.

“Is that so?”

He sounded almost amused, but I saw the danger there.

Suddenly, he scooped me up and carried me to the bathroom.

His grip was unyielding, and I didn’t bother to fight. I knew what was coming.

He actually believed it!

For a second, I almost pitied him. Almost.

“If you’re dirty, then let’s get you clean.”

His voice was cold, clinical. He dumped me into the tub, turning on the water full blast.

The water hit me like a slap, icy and relentless. I gasped, sputtering, but he didn’t stop.

Goosebumps rose all over my body.

My teeth chattered, my skin burning from the cold. I curled into myself, desperate for warmth.

I struggled, but couldn’t break free from his grip.

He held me down, his hands like iron. I clawed at his arms, but he didn’t let go.

The shock of the cold water triggered my PTSD.

The world narrowed to the sound of rushing water, my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. My vision blurred, memories crashing in.

Images of my parents’ plane crash when I was thirteen flashed through my mind.

I saw the fire, the smoke, the twisted metal. The screams. The silence that followed. It all came back in a rush.

I trembled, curling up in the corner.

I wrapped my arms around my knees, rocking back and forth. I couldn’t breathe.

Jackson thought I was faking it again.

He stood over me, arms crossed, eyes cold. He always thought I was being dramatic, that my pain was just an act.

“Autumn, don’t forget why you married me. You’re not here to enjoy life—you’re here to atone!”

He spat the words, as if saying them would make them true. I barely heard him over the roar in my ears.

The same line he’d repeated who knows how many times.

It was his mantra, his justification for everything he did to me.

This was our daily routine—nine out of ten things he said to me were laced with malice.

I used to count the kind words, hoping for a change. I stopped counting a long time ago.

When he saw me dazed and about to smash my head on the wall, Jackson panicked and carried me to the bed.

His hands were suddenly gentle, his voice frantic. He laid me down, fussing over me like I was a broken doll.

“What’s wrong? Where does it hurt…?”

His concern was too little, too late. I barely registered it.

“Jackson, you’ve tortured me enough all these years. Let’s just let each other go!”

My voice cracked, the words raw and desperate. I wanted him to feel even a fraction of what I felt.

Fueled by rage, I threw the divorce papers from the nightstand in his face.

The papers fluttered to the floor, pages scattering. He stared at them, then at me.

He glanced at the signature line and gave a cold snort.

His laugh was short, bitter. He picked up the papers, flipping through them like they were nothing.

“You’re in such a hurry to divorce me—got a man on the side?”

His voice was mocking, but I could see the fear behind it. He needed to believe I was the problem.

I pressed my lips together and stayed silent.

There was nothing left to say. I just stared at him, daring him to make the next move.

He slammed the door and left.

The sound echoed through the house. I waited until I was sure he was gone, then let myself cry.

Tears streamed down my face.

They came hot and fast, leaving me empty. I wiped them away, determined not to let him see me broken.

If all went well, after tomorrow I’d finally be free.

The thought was a small comfort, a light at the end of a very long tunnel.

The next day, Jackson sent me a message.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I picked it up, heart pounding.