And the dickhead had the gall to accuse me of giving it to him. Gaslighting bastard.
I ignore Brad’s stare, keeping my gaze stubbornly on the judge.
Whatever love I still have for him is wilting. It isn’t quite dead—there are far too many years and good memories for that to have occurred just yet—but it’s coming. I began to weed their remaining roots from my heart as more and more stories of his cheating and lying ways came to light.
It seems everyone knew about him but me.
He betrayed our life, our love, my trust, and it broke something in me.
“A sex addict,” his lawyer explains, submitting into evidence a note from Brad’s psychologist. “Unable to control his impulses.”
Funny, he was more than capable of controlling himself when I tried to initiate sex over the last six months.
We’d been trying for a baby for the last two years. When our little bundle of joy didn’t come, I tracked my ovulations, fed myself vitamins the size of a horse, worked out religiously, and saw doctor after doctor to discuss fertility options.
All for Brad to turn me down time and time again. I assumed the problem is me—that I’ve become stale and our sex life too predictable.
For our anniversary, I went all out. Gourmet meal, Brazilian wax, new lingerie, hair and makeup. It had all been for nothing. He texted around dinner to say he was stuck at the office. When he finally arrived home, I stood in our bedroom doorway, striking a sexual pose, determined to salvage our night.
“Too tired,” he’d claimed, kissing me on my forehead as I called myself ten types of fool. “Maybe tomorrow.”
I’d given him grace, knowing he’d been working long hours and late nights at the office.
It’s a phase, I’d told myself.All couples have them.
But it turned out he’d been hustling between a handful of women the entire time, those late nights spent balls-deep in some other woman. Happy anniversary to me.
The letter arrives the next day addressed to me by mistake. An STI test with positive results.
By the time he arrived home that night, I’d already gone—taking all my things along with ample evidence of his cheating. It was shockingly easy to uncover his indiscretions once I started digging.
The proceedings are surprisingly quick despite the objections Brad’s lawyer raises. Hard to defend the viability of a marriage when the wife can produce proof of adultery with more than one woman. More than twenty, if I’m honest, and those are just the ones I know about.
My lawyer, Murray, practically frolicked when I handed my evidence to him. Thankfully, my STI results come back clear,but Murray used my emotional distress as yet more evidence of Brad’s disregard for his wife.
For me.
He promised love and loyalty until death do us part. I’d since found out he fucked one of our wedding guests in the coat room at our wedding. Why he thinks he has any right to contest the divorce is beyond understanding. There’s nothing left for us to salvage.
The judge reads out the final dissolution of our marriage, awards us relevant assets, and strikes her gavel down, sealing the decision.
It’s done.
Rising from my seat, I move to leave the courtroom only to be accosted by Brad.
“Darling.” He drops to his knees, his hands reaching for me. “Please, don’t do this.”
I draw back, brushing my coat away from his clutching hands. Horror and delight mingle into some grim sense of justice. Fuck you.
I stare down at him. “Move out of my way.”
“No. I want another chance. Please, Molly. I can change.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “No.”
“Please, darling.” He stares up at me, tears glistening in his eyes. “You can’t just throw ten years of marriage away. What about our love? What about until death do us part?”
“I believe that promise died the moment you put your penis into another woman’s vagina.” I step around him, tossing my hair over my shoulder. “Goodbye, Brad.”
