She hung up on me.
I stare at the phone in my hand. The screen's gone dark. Call ended.
She actually hung up on me.
No one hangs up on me. Not my brothers. Not my men. Not anyone who wants to keep breathing.
And this woman just ended our conversation like I was some telemarketer she couldn't be bothered with.
I should be furious.
I am furious.
So why the hell is my mouth twitching?
I run my thumb across the dark screen. She's got nerve. I'll give her that. Most people see the wheelchair and assume I'm weak. Broken. Something to pity or dismiss.
She saw the wheelchair and decided to pick a fight anyway.
Stupid. Reckless. Naive.
Interesting.
No. Not interesting. Annoying. She's annoying.
I need to establish control. Now. Before she gets the idea that she can walk all over me.
I pull up our text thread and type.
The next time you hang up on me, you'll regret it.
I hit send. Watch the message deliver. Watch it show as read almost immediately.
Three dots appear. She's typing.
Good. Let her apologize. Let her realize she made a mistake.
The dots disappear.
Then reappear.
Then her message comes through.
Promises, promises. Goodnight, husband.
I read it twice.
Three times.
Promises, promises.
She's mocking me. She's actually fucking mocking me.
And that word.Husband.Dripping with sarcasm even through text. I can hear her voice saying it. That slight edge. That challenge.
My grip tightens on the phone until the case creaks.
She thinks this is a game. She thinks she can push me and I'll just sit here and take it. That I'm some toothless dog she can poke without consequence.
