My Husband Begged Me to Stay

“I know the truth now,” I whispered into the phone, voice trembling. “My husband, Cameron... he killed my parents. Please, Uncle. Take me home.”

Silence. Then a low, steady voice from the other end.

“If that’s true, then we’ll take revenge. I’ll make sure he pays. I’ll prepare everything… and come get you in a week.”

The call ended. My fingers slipped from the phone as I let out a sharp breath, trying to steady my pulse. My knees felt like they would give out at any second, but I pushed myself upright and turned toward the hallway.

That’s when I heard it.

A soft moan. Barely audible. Coming from the end of the hall—Cameron’s room.

I didn’t need to check. I knew who was in there.

Sofia.

His mistress.

Still, I walked toward the room, each step dragging a little more weight behind it. I stood by the door, half-hoping I was wrong, fully knowing I wasn’t.

“Ah… Sofia…”

His voice, low and hoarse, filled the space between us like poison.

He’d never said my name like that. Not even once.

I didn’t go in. I didn’t need to. Hearing it was enough to kill me a second time.

I turned away, remembering everything I had tried to forget.

I never loved Cameron. But once, a long time ago, I thought I could. He was my first crush. The quiet, brooding heir with eyes that never softened. He barely noticed me back then, but when he did, my heart used to skip.

So when he asked me to marry him because of the debt my parents owed to his family, I agreed. And Cameron had promised—if I became his wife, the entire thing would be wiped clean. No more collectors. No more threats. Just peace.

I convinced myself it was the right choice. That marrying him would be the key to saving my family. I could also make him fall for me so that our marriage wouldn't just be a transaction.

But the day we got married… My parents died in a car crash. Or so I believed for a year until I overheard him on the phone, talking to someone.

“…they deserved it. Her parents betrayed mine. They caused that fire. They ran, and my parents died. I was saved but then the accident also ruined my dick that I couldn’t get hard without medicine.”

There was a pause, then a bitter laugh.

“She married me thinking I saved her. She has no idea I orchestrated everything. No idea the crash wasn’t an accident. Her pain is justice. I’ll make her pay, every day.”

I remember standing there, frozen.

He never touched me without taking something first. Pills. Liquor. Anything to numb himself—or to get hard. He blamed me for what he lost. For what his family lost.

And I… I was nothing more than his prisoner.

All those years, Cameron didn’t even bother to pretend he loved me. He flaunted Sofia openly, like she was the one who truly belonged beside him. She’d show up at our home like it was hers, draping herself over him, laughing too loud, leaving behind perfume that clung to his shirts.

At first, I thought I deserved it. I told myself it was punishment—for being the daughter of the people who destroyed his life. That maybe if I endured it long enough, things would change.

But they didn’t.

Nothing ever changed.

Eventually, I stopped asking for affection. I stopped waiting to be seen. And I realized something that night:

I didn’t owe Cameron anything.

Not anymore.

I needed to leave…

The next morning, I baked myself a small cake. Happy birthday to me. It was also the anniversary of my parents’ death. Same day. Same hour. I used to think it was cruel timing. Now, I see it was planned.

I was icing the cake when I realized I hadn’t seen the framed photo of my parents. I always kept it on my dresser. I rushed to my room, opened drawers, checked the floor. Nothing.

My chest tightened. I searched the whole hallway, eventually heading to the art studio down the corridor—Sofia’s favorite spot in the house.

I found her humming to herself, scissors in hand, slicing through papers with exaggerated flair.

“Oh,” she said with a smirk, “I was doing some collaging. Needed some paper.”

She held up a familiar image—half a photograph. My mother’s smile was slashed clean through.

“This one felt more… expressive. Shows the pain, the loss.” She gave a shrug. “They’re dead anyway. It’s not like you’ll be needing this anymore.”

She tossed the rest into a pile of scraps, laughing like it was a joke.

And that was it.

That was the last straw.

My hand moved before I could think. A sharp smack echoed through the studio, louder than her laughter ever was.

Her head snapped to the side, eyes wide with shock. Mine were full of fire.