I Said Divorce When He Sent Me Red Roses Chapter 08

I Said Divorce When He Sent Me Red Roses Chapter 08

After only a few days apart, Callum looked utterly worn down.

His dress shirt was crumpled beyond repair, heavy dark purple shadows hung beneath his eyes, and he bore no resemblance to the polished, poised CEO he had always been before.

I watched him with sharp wariness, my tone ice-cold. “What do you want?”

My frigid demeanor cut straight through him, and the hands hanging loose at his sides slowly curled into tight fists.

“I won’t agree to this divorce.”

I clicked my tongue softly, overcome with irritation.

“You refuse?”

“Then prepare yourself for a courtroom battle.”

His eyes flooded red. “Can you really be this heartless toward me?”

“That night was nothing but an accident. Even if Maris and I made a mistake, you’ve always been the one I love.”

“Everyone slips up once in a while. Are you truly willing to end our marriage over one tiny misstep?”

I let out a quiet sigh, my voice so calm it felt foreign even to my own ears.

“This is not one tiny mistake. It is far more than just that single incident.”

Callum stared at me, thoroughly confused. “What do you mean?”

What did I mean?

I had never decided to file for divorce over one single day, one bouquet of roses, or one instance of infidelity.

I had simply run out of patience, drowning under years of accumulated disappointment.

My father had been a painter.

Like countless so-called romantic artists, he was flighty, selfish, and loved to frame every wound he inflicted as artistic inspiration.

When she was young, my mother had fallen head over heels for him, nearly losing her mind over her affection.

They married, and I was born shortly after.

Yet my father continued chasing other women behind her back throughout their marriage. My mother’s grief spiraled into severe clinical depression.

Maris’s mother had constantly manufactured opportunities to torment my mother, all in a bid to steal my father for herself.

My mother endured every slight for my sake.

She clung to the hope that if she stayed gentle and understanding long enough, my father would eventually come back to her.

She would stroke the top of my hair often and whisper to me, “Sweetheart, your father still loves us, doesn’t he?”

“He messes around outside our home, but he’s never filed for divorce, nor brought any of those women through our front door.”

“You’ll always be his only daughter.”

I would gaze at her increasingly gaunt face and nod in agreement, even though every word felt like a lie on my tongue.

Until that terrible night arrived.

My father stumbled home carrying a birthday cake.

Beside him stood a strange woman, who held a young girl’s hand tight.

That girl was Maris.

My father showed no trace of awkwardness whatsoever. He even lifted a hand to gesture toward the two strangers, introducing them to my mother and me as if they were mere house guests.

“All five of us will live under this roof together from now on.”

“This is Maris, and this is her mother.”

“She has no issue with me being already married, so I expect the two of you to get along peacefully with them.”

“You are all my family now.”

To bring his mistress and her daughter straight into our family home, and demand my mother treat them like blood relatives?

The whole idea was absurd beyond words.

Maris had not only handed my mother a single red rose. She had leaned right into my mother’s ear and hissed the cruellest words imaginable.

“Aren’t you suffering from depression?”

“You people keep talking about how you wish you were dead all the time, don’t you?”

“So why haven’t you killed yourself yet?”

“Once you’re gone, my mother and I can move into this house for good.”

“Dad hasn’t loved you for ages. The only reason he hasn’t filed for divorce is that he’s scared you’ll hurt yourself.”

“Can’t you stop dragging everyone down with your sadness?”

Those exact words.

They drove my soft, fragile mother to take her own life the day after her thirty-ninth birthday.

I had hated that young girl who handed my mother red roses that day.

Since I could not bring myself to destroy her directly, my hatred spilled over onto red roses themselves.

The sight of any red rose dragged my mind straight back to that bathroom.

I pictured my mother’s pale, lifeless face.

I pictured the shocking pool of crimson blood spread across the tile floor.

Callum had known every single detail of that tragedy.

Even so, he had still brought Maris right to my front door with his own two hands.