Chapter 4: Home Is Where It Hurts

Enduring the pain of bruised veins, I made my way back to our apartment in Maple Heights.

Every step was agony. I forced myself forward. The building loomed ahead, familiar but suddenly hostile.

The new security guard at the complex had just watched the livestream of my beating. He blocked me at the gate, refusing to let me in—even after I showed him my property deed.

He sneered, waving his phone in my face. “Sorry, man, you’re not welcome here.” I wanted to argue, but the words stuck in my throat. I wanted to punch something.

Dragging myself, I argued with the property office and community staff. Only after suffering their open hostility did I finally get back into my own home.

They looked at me like I was dirt, like I’d brought shame on the whole complex. I gritted my teeth, refusing to let them see me break. This wasn’t home anymore.

But soon, someone plastered my door with posters:

The paper was bright neon, impossible to ignore. Each new insult was worse than the last. I tore them down, but more showed up every day.

"Creep, go die."

The words echoed in my head, following me from room to room. Like I could ever escape them.

"Even sewer rats are cleaner than you."

I wondered if anyone actually believed it, or if they just liked having someone to hate. Probably both.

"When will the filthy wolf get what’s coming to him?"

Old superstition. If only they knew how close they were to the truth, they’d run screaming.

I didn’t have the energy to argue, so I just endured the neighbors’ insults outside my door.

Their voices faded into the background, replaced by the hum of the fridge, the ticking clock. Alone. Really alone, for the first time in years.

But inside: matching slippers on the rack, a man’s jacket on the coat hook, boxers on the sofa, used condoms in the trash.

The apartment was a shrine to someone else’s life. I picked up the jacket, feeling the expensive fabric. It wasn’t mine.

In the clear drawer under the coffee table, there were two spiked toys.

I stared at them, bile rising in my throat. I’d never seen them before. The realization hit me—she hadn’t even bothered to hide the evidence.

Fuming, I headed for the study.

I needed air, needed something familiar. The study was always my safe place—my little cave.

The old pack books and rare mugs I’d cared for were piled in the storage room, covered in dust and mold.

My treasures were worthless now, abandoned like me. I ran my fingers over the cracked spines. Nothing left but memories.

The study I’d loved as a boy had been turned into a sleazy den by Savannah.

The smell of cheap perfume clung to the air, mixing with old paper and regret. I wanted to smash something, but all I could do was shake.

I couldn’t hold back my rage anymore and spat blood onto the bright mirror.

The blood splattered, a jarring red against the glass. My own hollow-eyed reflection stared back. I barely recognized myself.

The blood dripped onto their photo as a couple.

It ran down, blurring their fake smiles. I felt a twisted satisfaction—at least I could ruin something of theirs.

She and Ethan Carter, kissing on Lover’s Bluff, riding a camel together across a landscape of half-green grass and half-golden sand.

Camel rides are rare here, but I guess money buys anything.

There were even private photos recording their intimate moments.

Each one was a punch to the gut. I flipped through them, hands shaking. I didn’t know the woman in those pictures.

My eyes felt dry as I stared at her, dressed in sheer black stockings and nearly see-through lingerie. My stomach twisted, like snakes crawling under my skin.

I dropped the photo, stumbling back. The room spun, my heart pounding. I wanted to forget, but I knew I never would.

So my supposedly innocent, naive wife was hooking up with another guy behind my back?

The proof was right there. I felt like a total fool, the butt of some cruel joke.

No wonder…

I couldn’t finish the thought. Everything hurt too much. My hands shook as I tried to steady myself on the desk.

In my feverish dreams, I saw her terrified, hiding behind her wealthy parents, raising those slender hands I used to hold, and screaming accusations at me.

The nightmares wouldn’t stop—her voice echoing, accusing, always just out of reach. I woke up drenched in sweat, sheets twisted around me.

"If I hadn’t once cared that you took care of me, I would’ve called the cops and accused you of assault!"

Her words rang in my ears, sharp and cold. I wondered—had she always felt that way, or did she just learn how to turn it against me?

"Too bad I was young and stupid then. I thought I was dirty, so I destroyed all the evidence!"

The confession made my skin crawl. I wanted to believe she was just angry, but deep down, I knew she meant it.

Countless scornful eyes stared at me. Before I could react, a fist smashed into my nose.

Pain, blinding and instant. Blood in my mouth. My knees buckled. The world shrank to a single pinpoint of agony.

The Langley family’s bodyguards dragged me out and beat me again.

Boots in my ribs, laughter in my ears. I curled up, praying it would end.

For three days, Savannah didn’t come home. I was too weak to buy medicine.

I lay on the couch, drifting in and out of fevered dreams. The world outside kept turning. I was stuck, frozen in place.