Chapter 2 - The Sound of Breaking Pride
Gregory’s hand cut through the air with wild, unpracticed momentum. To an average observer, it was an intimidating display of masculine rage. To me, it was clumsy, slow, and dangerously telegraphed.
Before his palm could make contact with my skin, I pivoted on my left foot, slipping beneath his arm. In one fluid movement, I trapped his wrist, drove my thumb into the nerve cluster behind his elbow, and twisted his arm into a brutal hammerlock behind his back.
Gregory gasped as his momentum drove him forward, his chest slamming against the hardwood floor right into the mess of pot roast and broken porcelain.
I applied just enough pressure to keep his shoulder on the verge of dislocation, kneeling over him with calm, relaxed precision.
"What... what the hell?!" Gregory spat, struggling against my grip, his face pressed against the floorboards. "Let go of me, you crazy bitch!"
"Eight years before I became a senior financial analyst, Gregory, I worked executive security for high-net-worth clients," I murmured close to his ear, my voice devoid of emotion. "I spent three hours a day, six days a week, learning how to disarm men twice your size. You thought you married a docile paycheck. You didn't do your homework."
I gave his wrist a sharp upward nudge. Gregory let out a high-pitched yelp, all his domestic bravado vanishing instantly.
"Listen to me very carefully," I said, leaning down. "This condo was purchased under my sole name four years ago. The down payment came from my blood, sweat, and seventy-hour work weeks. You haven't contributed a single dollar to the mortgage. You have no rights here."
"We're married!" he wheezed, tears of pain leaking from his eyes. "Everything you own is half mine!"
I stood up, letting go of his arm, and stepped back. Gregory scrambled to his feet, clutching his shoulder, his face flushed with a mixture of rage, embarrassment, and creeping terror.
"Our marriage certificate hasn't even been registered at the county clerk's office yet," I said, picking up my handbag from the counter. "And as of right now, it never will be."
I walked to the front door, opened it wide, and pointed into the dimly lit hallway.
"Get out."
"You can't throw me out!" Gregory yelled, his voice cracking as he tried to regain his composure. "It's pouring rain outside! I live here!"
"You lived here for three days as a guest," I replied, pulling my phone from my pocket and tapping the screen. "You have sixty seconds to walk out that door on your own feet before I press send on this video recording from my kitchen security camera—showing you kicking the dining table and attempting physical assault."
May you like
Gregory froze. He looked at the subtle black camera lens mounted beside the upper cabinet, then looked back at my face. The realization hit him like a bucket of ice water: I wasn't scared of him, I wasn't crying, and I was three steps ahead.
Cursing under his breath, Gregory snatched his coat from the rack and shoved past me into the rain-slicked night, slamming the door behind him.
