Too Late to Regret My Ex-Husband's Obsession Couldn't Stop Me

On the day I lost my baby, my husband told me to wash his childhood sweetheart’s underwear.

I was on my period, fragile and hurting, but Bronson Bradwell didn’t care. Instead, he turned to her for solace without hesitation.

Over the phone, I heard her sickly, sweet voice laced with mock concern. “Bronson, maybe you should spend some time with Estelle. She just had a miscarriage today.”

His reply was like a dagger, cold and unfeeling. “It’s just an abortion. Who knows whose bastard it was anyway.”

My blood ran cold. That was the man I had vowed to spend my life with.

I mustered every ounce of strength left in me and asked for a divorce. His sneer was as cruel as his words. He slapped me hard across the face, his voice venomous. “Do you think someone like you is worthy of asking for a divorce?”

I stumbled to my feet, tears stinging my eyes as I watched in helpless agony. He didn’t stop there. He trashed what was left of my world, digging up my mother’s ashes and scattering them into the sea without a shred of remorse.

He spoke with ice in his tone, each word a whip lashing at my resolve. “Take your mother and disappear as far away as you can.”

The next time we crossed paths was at the airport. I was leaving the country with my new husband, ready to embark on our honeymoon.

When his eyes landed on me, his expression twisted into something venomous, a concoction of disdain and misplaced triumph. His voice dripped with bitterness as he sneered, “Didn’t I tell you to stop clinging to me? Don’t you understand simple words?”

Before I could respond, my husband stepped forward, his presence commanding and composed. He wrapped an arm around me with an air of quiet authority, his voice calm yet pointed.

“Apologies. The person she’s here for is me.”

—-

Estelle Maddox had just returned home after her abortion surgery, exhaustion clinging to her like a shadow. As she pushed open the door, her foot snagged on something, a lace bra lying carelessly on the floor, one that clearly wasn’t hers.

Bronson Bradwell emerged from the bedroom, shirtless, his toned torso marred by fresh, telltale scratches.

“You’re back late,” he said casually, as though nothing was amiss.

“Overtime at the firm,” Estelle replied, her gaze shifting away from him. Her eyes landed on their wedding photo hanging on the wall, a bittersweet reminder. In it, her expression was composed, almost detached, while Bronson smiled brightly, his happiness seeming genuine.

He strode over to her, his movements unhurried yet deliberate. Gripping her chin, he pulled her into a kiss, his free hand already working at the zipper of her dress.

Estelle stiffened and placed her hands against his chest, stopping him. “My period came early.”

Estelle’s periods had always been punctual, but Bronson refused to believe her claim. His disbelief turned into aggression as he tore her dress, ignoring her feeble resistance.

The proof was undeniable: blood stained her underwear.

Displeased but unwilling to push further, Bronson dragged her to the sofa, forcing her trembling hands to satisfy him. Each movement left Estelle weaker, her fragile state worsening with every second. During the struggle, her knee collided with the sharp edge of the coffee table, the bruise blooming dark and instant.

Bronson, as always, remained indifferent to her pain.

When he was done, Estelle sat motionless, her lipstick smeared, the metallic tang of blood lingering on her tongue. Bronson lounged beside her, casually typing a message on his phone.

“I’ve bought your company. Starting tomorrow, you’ll come home on time and cook for me. Have a son within a year. The old man’s waiting for a grandson,” he said with an air of entitlement.

Lowering her gaze, Estelle murmured softly, “Got it.”

Bronson reached out, his fingers gripping her face, not harshly, but enough to leave an angry red mark that spoke volumes.

“Soleil’s also on her period. Go wash her underwear,” he added coldly, his words cutting like a blade.

Estelle’s gaze bore into Bronson, cold and unyielding. For a fleeting moment, he faltered as though bracing himself for her to retaliate.

But without a word, she bent down, picked up the discarded underwear, and disappeared into the bathroom.

The flicker of hatred in her eyes seemed nothing more than a trick of the light.

Bronson glared at the closed bathroom door, his frustration boiling over. With a roar, he grabbed a glass from the table and hurled it against the wall, shards scattering across the floor.

Estelle, once celebrated as the nation’s brightest legal mind and a fierce advocate for women’s rights, now stood in a bathroom, scrubbing the underwear of her husband’s mistress. Pride and dignity, once her armor, were cast aside like yesterday’s trash.

Bronson convinced himself he had spoiled her too much. Fueled by rage, he stormed into the bathroom, kicked the door open, and hoisted Estelle into his arms.

“Bronson, I’m on my period. You can’t...” Her protest was cut short as he flung her onto the bed.

The impact stole her breath and dulled her senses, but the sharp, searing pain that followed brought her back to consciousness.