DEBORAH'S POV
I tore away from her, stumbling backward until I hit the wall. My chest felt like it was caving in, like all the air had been sucked out of the room.
"He will never stop, will he?" The words came out in a broken whisper, trembling in the quiet like they were afraid to exist. "It will not get better, will it?"
Imogen's expression softened, and for the briefest moment, I thought I saw sorrow flicker in her eyes. Almost pity.
"No," she said, voice low but certain. "I am sure you have gotten the divorce papers. It won't."
The truth of it settled over me like a blanket woven from lead. Heavy. Suffocating. He would never love me the way I needed. He would never stop hurting me. He would never choose me over her. Not when it mattered. If he claimed me now, it was only because he had realized he had been played. Hard.
"So hand over the piece of the picture," Imogen said, holding out her hand, calm and steady. "Let us send him to hell where he belongs."
