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Chapter 622
Chapter 622:
She closed the laptop. She poured a glass of wine. She stood at the window and looked out at the city that had tried to break her, and she smiled.
Across the city, in the master bedroom of the Beasley home, Susan prepared for war.
She stood before her mirror in black lace and silk lingerie, applied perfume behind her ears, between her breasts, at the pulse points of her wrists. She was forty-seven years old. She had been beautiful once, before the years and the disappointments and Richard’s casual cruelties had etched themselves into her face.
Tonight, she felt beautiful again.
She pulled on a dress — simple, elegant, black — and stepped into heels that added four inches to her height. She checked her reflection one last time. The woman who looked back was a stranger. A predator. A woman who would take what she wanted and damn the consequences.
𝖳𝗵𝖾 𝘮𝗼ѕ𝘁 p𝗼p𝘶𝗅ar ո𝘰vе𝘭𝗌 𝗼n.соm
She walked downstairs.
Richard emerged from his study, his face haggard, his eyes red-rimmed from drink or sleeplessness or both.
“Where are you going p>
“Out p>
“It’s eleven o’clock. Susan, we need to talk about tomorrow. The lawyer said p>
“I said I’m going out.” She did not slow. She did not look at him.
He reached for her arm, his fingers closing around her wrist with the desperate strength of a man who knows he is losing everything.
“Susan, please. I know things are bad. I know I’ve failed you. But we can fix this. We can p>
She looked at his hand on her arm. She looked at his face — bloated and defeated, the face of a man who had never been enough and never would be.
“Don’t touch me.” Her voice was ice. “You disgust me p>
She pulled free and walked out the door without looking back.
Richard stood in the hallway, his hand still extended, his mouth open, his heart breaking in silence. He heard the car start. He heard it pull away. He did not move for a long time.
At two in the morning, the lock clicked open.
Susan entered like a queen returning from conquest. Her hair was disheveled, her makeup smeared, her dress wrinkled. She smelled of another man’s cologne.
She looked at Richard, still sitting where he had been hours before, and she felt nothing — not guilt, not pity, simply the vast and hollow satisfaction of a hunger finally fed.
She walked to the closet and began throwing his clothes onto the floor. Shirts. Suits. The ties he had worn to meetings where he had failed to close deals, failed to impress investors, failed to save their family from ruin.
“Get out,” she said.
Richard stared at her. “Susan p>
“Get out of my room. Get out of my bed. Get out of my sight.” She turned to face him, and her expression was final. Absolute. “You’re sleeping in the guest room from now on. I don’t want to see your face. I don’t want to hear your voice. You are nothing to me. You have always been nothing p>
She threw the last of his shirts at his feet.