Mehar had the key. Ahmad’s arrogant ass had never changed the locks. Probably thought she’d come crawling back eventually, begging for forgiveness, ready to resume her position as his personal property.
He thought wrong.
The door swung open without a sound. The house was dim, curtains pulled tight against the afternoon sun. And I could hear… sounds. Coming from the living room. Rhythmic sounds. Grunting sounds.
Oh no.
Oh NO.
Please, Lord, don’t let this be what I think it is.
Mehar walked toward the noise. Prime and I followed. And there, in all his pathetic glory, was Ahmad.
Sitting on his leather couch.
Pants around his ankles.
Hand wrapped around his… okay, I’m being generous calling it a hand’s worth.
Eyes closed. Mouth open. Making sounds that would haunt my nightmares for years to come.
This man was sitting in his living room at 2pm on a Thursday, beating his meat like it owed him money.
“Wow.” Mehar’s voice sliced through the silence like a machete. “And here I thought you couldn’t possibly be more disgusting. But you just keep finding new ways to disappoint me.”
Ahmad’s eyes flew open.
For a solid three seconds, his brain just… buffered. You could practically see the loading wheel spinning behind his eyes. His wife. In his living room. With two strangers. While he was mid-stroke on his sad little situation.
Then the rage kicked in.
“WHAT THE FUCK—” He scrambled to pull up his pants, his face twisting with fury. “MEHAR! HOW DARE YOU BRING PEOPLE INTO MY?—”
“Shut up.” She pulled the gun from her waistband and aimed it at his chest.
Ahmad froze. Pants still half-down. Dick still half-out. Looking like the world’s most pathetic screensaver.
“What—what are you?—”
“I said shut UP.” Mehar’s voice was ice. Antarctica ice. “You don’t get to talk right now. You don’t get to yell. You don’t get totell me what to do EVER again.” She gestured with the gun. “Pull your pants up. You look pathetic.”
He didn’t move. Just stood there, trembling, eyes bouncing between Mehar and Prime and me like a pinball machine of panic.
Prime didn’t even look at him. Just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“You heard her.”
Ahmad fumbled with his pants, trying to yank them up from around his ankles like he’d forgotten how legs worked. His hands were shaking so bad he couldn’t get the zipper. Couldn’t work the belt. Just stood there half-dressed, pathetic, trembling.
“Mehar, my wife, you need to listen to me?—”
“I’m not your wife anymore.” She stepped closer, gun steady as a surgeon’s hand. “I stopped being your wife the second I walked out that door. The only reason I’m back is to make sure you understand EXACTLY what happens to men like you.”
“Men like me?” His voice cracked. “I am your HUSBAND. I have provided for you. Protected you. Given you a home, a life, everything a woman could?—”
“You gave me NOTHING.” Mehar’s composure cracked, just for a second, and I saw the wounded girl underneath. The girl who’d been broken and rebuilt wrong. “You took everything FROM me. My freedom. My dignity. My family. My BODY.”
She said those last two words with so much venom that my stomach dropped.
