Beg On Your Knees: Erasing My CEO Husband Chapter 09

Beg On Your Knees: Erasing My CEO Husband Chapter 09: Locked Doors in the Rain

Water battered the black canvas of my umbrella relentlessly. I navigated the cracked sidewalk, carefully sidestepping deep puddles reflecting the orange glow of the streetlights. I reached the entrance of my new, rundown apartment building.

A figure stood blocking the rusted iron gate. Julian.

He didn’t stand under the concrete awning. He stood deliberately directly in the downpour. His three-thousand-dollar charcoal suit stuck violently to his frame. Rain plastered his dark hair against his forehead. I stopped two feet away.

He looked up. His eyes were entirely bloodshot, the rims raw and red. He looked pathetic. He looked exactly like a man who had lost everything and had walked miles through a storm just to find his way home.

My fingers clamped hard around the plastic handle of my umbrella. A familiar, deeply ingrained instinct flared in my chest: He’s cold. He needs a towel. He needs me to fix it.

Then, I looked past his shoulder. A black Maybach idled halfway down the block. The engine was running. The heater was undoubtedly blasting. He hadn’t walked miles. He had stepped out of a luxury vehicle three minutes ago and chosen to stand in the rain. He was weaponizing his own misery to force my hand.

I forced my knuckles to unclench. The tension drained completely from my arm.

“Move, Julian,” I said.

“Clara,” he rasped. His voice cracked perfectly on the second syllable. It was a masterful, manipulative performance.

“You’re blocking the lock”.

“I’ve been waiting for an hour.” He wrapped his arms around his torso, exaggerating a severe shiver. “I didn’t know when you would get back from the gala”.

“You have a phone. You have a car”.

“I needed to see you”.

“You saw me on stage. I gave you a very clear message”.

Julian took a half-step forward. Water dripped continuously from his chin, completely soaking his ruined silk tie. “I’m freezing,” he whispered, his tone dropping into a desperate plea. “Please. Just let me come upstairs”.

“No”.

“Five minutes, Clara. I just need to change into some dry clothes. I’ll call my driver to bring up a fresh suit. Then we can talk”.

“We have nothing to talk about”.

“I am your husband!” he shouted aggressively over the storm.

“You’re the man I served with divorce papers three hours ago”.

“That was a stunt. You were angry. I understand that”. He wiped a hand across his wet face, smearing rainwater into his red eyes. “You embarrassed me in front of my investors. You got your

revenge. Now let me inside”.

“You think the divorce was a PR stunt?”

“I think you are reacting emotionally,” he countered. His teeth chattered loudly. “I think you saw something in Paris that upset you, and you want me to feel the pain you felt. Fine. I feel it. I am standing in the freezing rain”.

“You drove here to manipulate me”.

“I drove here to fix my marriage!”

“By playing the victim?” I asked.

“By showing you I care!”

“You care about your image. You care that Elias watched you bleed on the floor tonight”.

Julian flinched. The mention of my gala escort broke his pitiful facade for a fraction of a second. His jaw tightened before he expertly forced his expression back into a mask of suffering.

“I made a mistake,” he insisted. “I am paying for it. Look at me”.

“I am looking at you. I see a man who parked his heated car down the street so he could stand outside and look sad”.

“I am shivering!”

“Then go to a hospital”.

I shifted my weight, preparing to bypass him. Julian immediately

shifted, mirroring my movement to successfully block the iron gate again.

“Just open the door,” he pleaded. His voice grew hoarse again. “I’ll catch pneumonia out here. Is that what you want? You want me sick?”

He expected me to cave. For seven years, his discomfort was my absolute priority. A minor headache meant I canceled my plans. A stressful day at the office meant I drew his bath and poured his scotch. He was waiting for the conditioned response.

I held out my umbrella.

“What is this?” he asked, staring at the black canopy.

“Take it,” I offered coldly.

“I don’t want an umbrella. I want to go inside”.

“This is all you are getting from me. Take it, or stay wet”.

Julian stared at my outstretched hand. The streetlamp caught the furious glint hiding beneath his red, watery eyes. He hated losing control. He hated that the guilt trip wasn’t working.

He reached out. He didn’t aim for the plastic handle. His hand darted forward, his wet fingers snapping open, aiming directly for my exposed wrist. He wanted to lock his grip around my arm. He intended to use the physical connection to drag me into a confrontation I couldn’t walk away from.

I anticipated the trap. I let go of the handle.

The umbrella dropped instantly. It hit the wet pavement with a

hollow thud, rolling slightly toward the gutter. Julian’s hand grasped empty air. Before he could recover his balance, I darted backward. I slipped past his shoulder and wedged myself safely behind the heavy iron gate of the apartment entrance. I yanked the metal door shut.

*Clang.*

I turned the rusted brass key. The deadbolt slid into place with a loud, final snap.

Julian lunged forward frantically. His hands hit the wrought-iron bars, the impact rattling the old frame.

“Clara!” he barked. The pitiful, raspy voice vanished entirely.

“Stay away from my building,” I told him through the bars.

“Open this door right now!”

“Call your driver, Julian. The performance is over”.

“You can’t do this!” He shook the gate. The metal groaned in protest. “You do not get to walk away from me!”

“I already did”.

“I will freeze out here!”

“Then freeze”.

I turned my back on him. I walked toward the narrow, dimly lit stairwell.

“Clara!” he roared.

I didn’t stop. I didn’t look over my shoulder. I kept my pace perfectly steady, my footsteps echoing against the peeling plaster walls of the lobby. Behind me, the sound of the storm raged aggressively against the glass panels of the front door.

I reached the first landing and paused, shielded safely by the shadows of the stairwell. I glanced down through the small, dirty window that overlooked the street.

Julian stood completely frozen on the sidewalk. The umbrella lay abandoned near his expensive shoes. Cold rain relentlessly battered his shoulders, running in thick streams down his jawline. He stared through the glass of the locked gate, his chest heaving violently.

For seven years, his sadness was my command. His pain was my emergency. He had weaponized his tears, fully expecting me to unlock that door and pull him into a warm embrace. Now, the weapon was totally useless.

No anger twisted his features. No smooth corporate negotiation tactics remained. Just pure, unadulterated panic. He pressed his wet palm flat against the cold glass. His eyes wildly scanned the empty lobby, searching for a woman who was supposed to fold at the first sign of his tears.

He finally realized the truth. The infinite tolerance he relied on was gone forever.