#lyonel

“Lyonel, please…” You pleaded, struggling to breathe as he kissed your neck, probably leaving marks from how hard he was sucking and biting it. “Let’s just- mmm- can we go ins- can we go inside?”

“Gods, you make such pretty sounds, and I’m not even touching you yet.” He kissed you again, his beard scratching the soft skin around your mouth. “I’ve been fantasizing about this all night. You’re fucking heavenly.”

“I want you to touch me! Please, can we just go inside?” You started unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, trying to see if that would convince him.

“So wound up, are you afraid of anyone catching us, my little lightning strike?” He pushed the thin fabric covering one of your breasts to the side, attacking your nipple as he groaned. He was buying time, trying to drive you to the kind of insanity that would incite you to just let him fuck you stupid in the middle of the walkway for all to hear and see. Although he was sure no one would interrupt you two.

“You keep stopping, I feel like we’re never- hmm, gonna get in there and you’re driving me mad!” You answered as you tried your hardest to string words together.

He bit your nipple, making you hiss, then looked back at you. “I’m so sorry darling, you’re right. It’s unfair of me to do this to you.” His lips found yours once more, you let his tongue massage yours sloppily until he suddenly pulled away. He brought his index and middle fingers to your bottom lip. “Open. Suck them for me.”

You did as you were told, never looking away from him while you swirled your tongue and covered his fingers with your spit. “There you go, thank you.” His other hand dropped to your legs, bunching your dress up. “I’m thinking I’m gonna put my fingers inside you now, would you like that?”

“Yes, please…” You were further squished onto the wall, Lyonel grabbed one of your legs and you instinctively wrapped it around him.

“Well, when you ask me so nicely…” He pulled your underwear to the side and teased you, collecting some of your pooling wetness and bringing it to his mouth. “Fuck… all this time, you’ve been keeping that from me?”

“I keep trying to te-” He plunged his fingers in and started pumping, accomplishing his goal to make you whine for a different reason.

“Yeah, that’s it. Just enjoy it, you deserve it.” It didn’t take him long to find the angle and pace to make you shake, arching your back off the wall while you gripped his shirt and struggled to find your breath. “You did so well tonight, fuck.”

How long would it have taken me to notice if she did? And, what kind of a man ends up in a position where he has to ask himself that question? Nope, closing that door.

But hate is a passionate thing, and passion he could work with, whatever form it came in. As long as it came from you. If you hate him he can get you back, he can turn it around, make you want him again.

Lyonel didn’t know where to start, he was overwhelmed and anxious, desperate to do something. Flood your phone with texts and calls and voicemails. Beg. Grovel. Anything. But if there was one thing he remembered well, it was how much you absolutely loathed when you’d asked someone for space and they wouldn’t leave you alone. Friendships of yours had ended as a result of it.

Whatever impulse had him shaking and pacing would need to be reigned in. Even if he managed to get a hold of you or see you in the flesh, he could see it perfectly now: He’d beg for forgiveness and one more chance, you’d ask him what he was apologizing for, and he wouldn’t know. Well.. he’d know, but he wouldn’t know the extent of it, and that would only push you further away. When Lyonel had asked you to marry him it was out of love… and lust, yes, but it was also a choice that had been more or less made for you both, he’d hurriedly proposed at the four month mark, and five years later it was biting him in the ass. If he wanted to keep the marriage and the woman, more planning and consideration would have to go into it than it did when he got you both into this mess in the first place.

He would have to wait, he figured he’d have some time to do find out what for before “the lawyers got involved”.

He hadn’t done much those past few days besides look like pure shit, survive the worst firewine hangover ever, be distracted at work, and take too long at buying linens for the bed. It had been so embarrassing how long he stood in the fucking store, staring at a wall full of stupid linens not knowing which ones he actually needed, which ones you’d pick. So he bought about six sets and got the fuck out of there, not needing more awkward and pitiful stares from the workers and other patrons.

As he made the bed with the one set of bed sheets that actually fit, it dawned on him that he didn’t know much about his own household. From the moment he’d gotten this place for you two, you had done everything. Well, everything a rich, hot, young wife would do in a place like this.

You didn’t cook (not that you couldn’t) but you chose the menu for the chef weekly. You seldom cleaned, but showed the housekeeper how you liked it to be done. You’d worked with a gardener to make sure the garden looked beautiful and was tended to. You got Lyonel something nice to wear whenever you went shopping for yourself, kept his work clothes ironed and organized by color and fabric. You always planned something special for his birthday… no, for his birthday week, even if the plans ended up getting cancelled sometimes. You decorated the house for months when you first got married until it was ‘perfect’, and redecorated whenever it started to feel ‘boring’. Gods, and he’d mocked you for it when he’d last seen you.

You’d tried making the house into a home, been an active participant in your marriage and life together, and Lyonel had come and gone as he pleased. No wonder there were divorce papers sitting in the living room. And the worst part of is was that he didn’t even figure it out himself, you had to spell it out for him and strip the house practically bare for him to put it together: He’d been so, very, selfish and self-centered.

By the evening of day ten his lawyer paid him a visit. “She wants to move quickly with this, I already met with her guy today. Do you need me to go over what happens if you don’t sign by the date she set or are you gonna make my life easy for once?” He looked around, eyeing the empty… everything.

“Where’s the fun in that, Quentyn?” Lyonel poured them both a drink.

“Right… Well, if you’re not signing, we have a date with them in four days. If one of the parties doesn’t agree to the initial divorce agreement, we all have to get together in a room and come up with something else. We have three rounds to negotiate new terms and-”

“What if I don’t want to negotiate new terms?”

“Lyonel… I’ve gone over the papers, have you? She is not being unreasonable, she just wants to get rid of you it seems. Let her.”

“Nah.” He scoffed.

“Did she cheat? Do you wanna make her miserable? What did she do? I can get ugly if you wanna get ugly.” The lawyer seemed almost giddy.

Lyonel grimaced. “Seven fucks, Tarth... No, it’s not like that. If anything, I was the cunt.”

“Alright, so what do you want?”

“I need time. I’ll go to the thing but I need you to do everything you possibly can to stall this process.”

Quentyn downed his drink and poured himself another. “She’s doing this as a courtesy, Lyonel. If by round three we don’t come to an understanding, her guy will take over. I’ve seen him get ugly.”

“Why are you all pissy? You can take him!” Lyonel grabbed him by the cheeks. “The divorce isn’t happening. I just gotta-I just need time. Can you make me some time?”

He rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I have an idea for the meeting, and I’ll look into what legal fuckery we can get into after the rounds are up, I guess. But Lyonel, it is a fine line. Make her mad enough and she’ll unleash her dog on us, may even get a restraining order against you. Divorce lives in a fragile ecosystem.”

“She’s my fucking wife, I know her. It won’t get to that.”

“Yeah, I sure hope so. Allow me to remind you, I’m not just your lawyer, I represent Yellow Stag first and foremost. You have a very tight time window before I have to go and tattle to daddy. She has a board seat, she always sends a proxy, but she may start showing up out of the blue.” He grabbed his stuff and started heading for the door. “I’ll keep it as contained as I can, but there is only so much I can do if she’s willing to leak the news herself...”

“It won’t get to that!” Lyonel yelled from the hallway.

“I’m rooting for you, buddy!” He yelled back as he closed the door.

Fucking lawyer, cunting company.

--

He had four days to prepare. It wasn’t enough.

It had been a long time since he’d concerned himself with how he looked wearing what clothes, he hadn’t put on a suit and tie only to change six more times in years. Nerves had been absent on his side during your wedding day, the last time he’d been nervous about something related to you was when he’d asked you to date him.

That day and its activities felt incredibly far away now but he decided to keep the memory of it in mind as the standard of how he should make you feel, as he finally settled for a navy blue suit and tie with a white shirt. Quentyn Tarth met him outside of your lawyer’s office building.

“You good? Let me do most of the talking, follow my lead.” He said to Lyonel as he offered to share his cigarette.

“Yeah.” Lyonel took along drag. “Let’s do it.” Just lunch. I just need her to agree to lunch. Just lunch.

He walked through the sterile halls of your lawyer’s offices and as the receptionist guided him and Quentyn to the conference room, he finally saw you through the glass walls. You were sitting down next to your lawyer, listening intently to whatever he was whispering in your ear. Why is he whispering? There’s no one but them in there.

You looked amazing, he recognized the dress, his mind going immediately to the gutter.Focus.You were frowning a bit, but he loved that annoyed expression on you, he loved when you scolded him and he would make it better. He’d try to do that today too, even if it was considerably harder than usual.

Quentyn’s words were important, ‘Divorce lives a fragile ecosystem’. “Morning.” That was the extent of what he’d say out of turn for now.

“Morning, Lyonel, Quentyn. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? We all have places to go. What points exactly from the agreement my client presented to yours weren’t to your liking?” Your lawyer asked cooly, looking between the two men.

“Well, for starters, the agreement does not account for the fact that my client is a public figure and these proceedings are coming at a rather inconvenient time in the fiscal year. ”

You looked at Quentyn like he was speaking in another language. “What?”

“Sorry, right, the agreement does not include a moratorium period in which the divorce will not be public knowledge. Given that my client is a high-profile individual in his industry, as well as in the mainstream media, news of a divorce could affect the value of his company in the stock market since Yellow Stag is having a pretty big launch soon. A public divorce right now is just not something that would work for my client. A separation period of a year would be preferable for him.”

Damn Quentyn, why didn’t I think about that?

“You cannot be serious, Lyonel.” You looked at him with more anger than when you’d said you hated him. Your lawyer signaled for you to stop. “What conditions would this separation period include?”

“Your client would still be able to retain her newly acquired residence and live in it of course, as well as dating discreetly if she so wishes to do, given that she already maintains a lower profile than my client. She would, however, need to be seen with my client at public events related to Yellow Stag, and, an occasional lunch. To keep up appearances.”

Your lawyer looked at Quentyn suspiciously. “Is that it? After the year is up, he’ll sign? Same terms?”

“Yes.” Lyonel and Quentyn answered in unison.

You conferred with your lawyer for a moment, nodding at him after a few words. “Very well, let’s put that in writing, shall we?” He challenged.

Lyonel looked at his own lawyer for signs of uncertainty, he found none. “Let’s do it.” He smiled at you.

Both lawyers got up and started walking out of the conference room. “Do we need a chaperone or are you two okay in the same room?” Yours asked, mostly to you, as he stopped right before the door.

“Why wouldn’t we?” Lyonel answered with a scowl.

“I’ll be fine, thank you.” You assured your lawyer, smiling warmly.

With that, the men took their leave to draft the separation agreement.

“This is seriously all you’re asking for?” You didn’t believe for one second that it would be this easy.

“Yup.” Lyonel answered matter-of-factly.

“What’s your angle?” He was stalling, you could smell it.

“I really do need for this year to go well, my studio is young and I still have to prove it’s worth the investment.” It wasn’t a lie, he just hadn’t thought to use it as leverage, but Quentyn had, so he might as well.

You laughed bitterly. “You know I can see right through you…”

“You never answered my text.” He changed the subject, hoping to annoy you in a more playful and endurable manner.

“That was bait.”

“Don’t need to bait you, darling. Quentyn meant what he said, you can keep the new place, you can even get a boy toy if you want to. But you’ll have to spend time with me sometimes, and I plan on using all of it to make things right, show you we’re meant to be together. And once I do, all you’ll need is me. I promise you.” The calm in his voice was a welcome surprise to him, he originally thought that when he said this to you his body would betray him and he’d end up grovelling on the floor.

“How many times did you repeat that line in the mirror, Lyonel?” Teasing him was fun, but it kinda slipped out. The long-dead dynamic of your marriage creeping up.

It made him smile a little. “Three, maybe four. I wanted it to land just right.” He loved it when you mocked him, he missed your quips more than he could ever express. It had been too long since you’d been playful with each other.

You snapped out of it. “The girl you married is gone, I’ll play the part of the happy wife in public but once the year is up, you’re not getting me back.” Setting expectations from the beginning was a good idea, your lawyer had told you himself. That way, Lyonel could never legally argue that you’d led him to think getting back together was an option.

“I’m not trying to deserve that girl again, I want to deserve who you’ve become.” He looked at you, serious.

It almost tugged at your heartstrings, how he wanted to fix things... right when you were sick of his inaction. But you could use this. If he was distracted thinking he was in the process of winning you back, he wouldn’t suspect that you were making moves to ruin him.

“Right, okay, cool. Let’s go back to our regularly scheduled sham of a marriage, just let me know when you need me pretty by your side.”

“Don’t fucking do that. Don’t try to- Don’t even suggest that what we have isn’t real. This…” He pointed back and forth between you. “What we have is worth it. I made you forget, and I take full responsibility for that, I ruined it. I ruined us. But I want you to know right now, if I’ve ever done one thing right, it was making you my wife.”

“Oh, you’re really going with that? ‘The one thing you’ve done right...’ Then why does it hurt so much, being your wife?” You’d failed, the calm and collected facade had slipped, you were angry again.

He put his hand across his face, stopping at his mouth and shaking his head. “I…” There was an answer of course, but he couldn’t verbalize it at the moment. He knew what you were really asking, ‘Why did you hurt me?’

The lawyers stepped back into the conference room. They walked you both through the separation agreement and once they’d made sure everything was clear, you finally signed. Lyonel smiled warmly at you, as if signing the papers was a fresh start for you both.

Your lawyer clarified that as long as both of you remained satisfied with the agreement for the duration of the year, the two original pending negotiation rounds wouldn’t be necessary. At this, everyone got up from their seats and he lead you three to the elevator where he pecked your cheek. “Call me if you need anything.” Lyonel knew that was probably on purpose, the dangling the carrot in front of him.

The silent elevator ride down to the parking lot was less uncomfortable than he expected, only silent because it was so quick. Quentyn repeated the same words of your lawyer, directing them to Lyonel and heading for his car.

You waved at them both wordlessly and started walking towards the street, getting on your phone to text your driver.

Lyonel remembered he had one goal today: lunch, and he went after you. He stepped in front of you and started walking backwards as you showed no sign of stopping. “Can I take you out? Just lunch. I swear.” He put his arms up and stopped, making you bump against him.

Maybe this way will be easier, you considered for a moment. “Where?” You pushed him away softly, putting some needed distance between you but still looking him in the eye.

“Gods, wherever you wanna go.” He chuckled and signaled for you to lead the way.

“Fine, there’s a place two blocks from here.”

--

“So… how you been? You look good.” He tried, warmly.

“I’m fine, let’s talk logistics.” You rejected his gesture immediately. “When’s the next time you need me to come with you to something?” The pasta was so good, it almost made up for the annoyance of having to be seen with Lyonel. Of having to be so close to him so soon again, acting like you’re just a husband and wife having lunch.

“I honestly don’t know, I’ll ask my assistant.”

“What about these stupid lunches, how frequently do we have to have them?”

“How do you feel about twice a month, every two weeks?” He wanted more, once a week. But he also knew you were on edge already and would probably reject him if he asked.

“Fine.” You ordered another cocktail, dismissing him.

Lunch was quiet after, both of you eating as if you were on your own. Lyonel felt miserable not knowing what to do, so he’d just stayed quiet. It hadn’t taken longer than an hour for you to be done with your food and tell him you were leaving.

“Let me drive you.” He jumped at the opportunity to be around you for a little longer, sounding almost calm. Almost.

“I’ll just get a cab. Besides, you just wanna know where I live now.”

“Well where am I supposed to pick you up when I need to?”

“Fine, you might as well know. I have something I wanna give back to you anyway.”

So she’ll let me come in?

“See? Win-win.”

He didn’t even wait for the waitress to come back to ask her for the bill, leaving a couple hundred bucks, sure that it would cover your food and drinks as well as her tip. The walk back to the parking lot at your lawyer’s office feeling a bit less hostile, now that you had some food in you, you were inclined to give him a little less shit.

Lyonel swore he’d behave, by the time you got to your building and rode the elevator up, he was acting like you were a nun, difficult as it was for him. You signaled for him to follow you once the elevator doors opened to the penthouse, reaching your door soon to type in the code.

“Sit if you’d like, I’ll just be a second.” You showed him to the sofa, but he only smiled and kept looking all around, he recognized some of the furniture and décor, but some was new as well. You’d gotten rid of some of the stuff you’d originally taken with you, this was a whole new place with a whole new energy. This was the penthouse of a woman who was single. You were ready to move on, he could see it all around him, and it terrified him.

You stepped back into view, walking over to him and delivering a little blue box to his hands. “Here.”

He knew what it was immediately, but he still felt the need to open it, the final step to make it real. “Oh…” Your engagement and wedding ring sat there, recently polished. “I don’t… They’re not heirlooms or anything, they’re yours.” He noticed you hadn’t removed your hand from his, but you wouldn’t look at him,

You couldn’t move, feeling unexpectedly emotional at the exchange and your angry, tough exterior dissolving. “What am I supposed to do with them?” With your resolve crumbling and barely fighting back the tears you knew were coming no matter what you did, you finally looked up at him, having gotten closer without realizing.

Your husband knew he’d hurt you terribly, and he knew he had to fix it, but he didn’t know what to do to stop you from crying. Your eyes pleaded for him to do so, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t undo five years of neglect and rejection, he couldn’t wish it away, no matter how much he wanted.

One single tear streamed down your face as your lower lip quivered, you eventually bit it, trying to stop the rest from spilling.

“Fuck, darling. Don’t cry, don’t look at me like that.” He wiped it away and cupped your face gently. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t a better man for you. I’m sorry. I’m so so so sorry that I’ve hurt you, I’ll make it better, yeah?” He tilted your head up as he lowered his lips to yours, capturing them in a quick kiss, afraid that he’d trigger you to reject him if he deepened it. The ball was in

“Why did it take me leaving for you to realize? Why did you make me invisible?” You were full on crying now, pulling him back in for a heated kiss, sticking your tongue in his mouth as you claimed it. The papers weren’t signed yet, he was still yours. Even if it was for just this moment, you’d have him one last time. You needed him.

“I’ll make it better, baby.” He tossed the little blue box and grabbed you by the ass, pulling you so close that only your clothes separated you now and spinning you around to walk you over to the nearest wall, not pulling away from you at any moment. His mouth moved over to your neck, sucking harshly on the delicate skin as one of his hands dropped to your things to bunch up your dress.

He nibbled on your skin as he desperately tried to lower your underwear. “I’ll make it better, I promise.” Lyonel repeated once more, his pupils blown out, almost completely black.

You helped him with your underwear, finally feeling it pool at your feet and quickly stepping out of it only for him to grab one of your legs to have you wrap it around his leg. You kissed him again, now focusing your trembling fingers on removing his tie and suit jacket, desperate to feel the warm skin of his chest and moving onto the buttons of his shirt.

He broke the kiss and replaced his tongue with two of his fingers, urging you to suck on them. “Get them nice and wet for me baby, can you do that for me?” You obeyed, coating them with all the spit you could produce. “Perfect, just perfect… that mouth of yours, Gods. You ready for them?”

You looked at him, your eyes pleading once more, “Please…” You were almost finished with his buttons, pulling his shirt off him when he started fingering you, curling his fingers the way he knew you needed.

“That’s it, that’s better, isn’t it?” He pushed down the sleeves of your dress to help him pull your breasts out of it, and you were grateful, as it was starting to feel too constricting. Although, your harsh breathing could probably best be attributed to his ministrations. He leaned down and bit on your nipple, causing it to pebble completely, then sucking on it like his life depended on it. His deft fingers almost being swallowed by your spongy walls. “You’re so fucking tight, it’s my fault. I’ll get you ready baby, I’ll get you ready for me yeah?”

Your eyes were squeezed shut as you raked your nails on his broad and warm chest, nodding was all you could do. He had always been so good at it, talking you through it when he was finger fucking you and making you impossibly wetter, the squelching sound of his fingers thrusting inside you almost as loud as your moaning.

For a moment you regained some movement and started unbuckling his belt, looking for the best asset he had to offer. You couldn’t even pretend you didn’t miss his thick cock if you tried, unzipping his pants you finally slid your hand inside his boxers and started stroking his already leaking cock. Looking up at him you saw his wild expression, you both moaned into an even sloppier kiss as you got each other off. Lyonel broke the kiss first. “I need to be inside you.”

You nodded and went for the zipper at the back of your dress, trying to undo it. Lyonel took your hands from you. “Keep it on, I love this fucking dress. I need to commit this to memory.” He kissed you once more, lowering his pants just enough to take his swollen member out and wrapping your leg around his.

He teased your wet cunt with the tip of his cock, grabbing your head with his other hand to look into your eyes. “You ready?” You pulled him down to you by his curls, kissing him messily as you said yes.

You could feel him shake when he finally slid home inside you, your pussy clamping on his hard cock as if it wanted to swallow him whole. Looking into his eyes, you saw the adoration your marriage had been missing for a while now, almost breaking your heart once more, but the feeling immediately being replaced by the pleasure he brought as he expertly thrust into you; his forehead on yours, your breaths coming out harshly and the air being recycled between the two of you as you moaned and gasped into each other’s mouths.

Lyonel’s thumb fell to your clit, rubbing desperately just the way you liked it. “I’m not gonna last long, need you to come on my cock, pretty girl.” H lowered his mouth to the nipple he hadn’t paid attention to before.

“Lyonel I- fuck, just like that- pull my hair.” You didn’t even know what it was that you wanted to tell him anymore, the waves of pleasure getting more and more overwhelming by the second. “Harder, harder, please- aaah-”

He obeyed, pulling it in a way that exposed your neck to another assault of his love bites and ramping up the strength and speed with which his hips pistoned into you. He could feel you getting closer and closer, your walls getting impossibly snug.

Your orgasm had been building for what felt like an impossibly long time, so long that it was so sudden and violent when you finally started shaking in Lyonel’s grasp. You’d gotten louder and apparently strong as well, drawing blood form the spot in his chest where you’d been scratching him.

“I got you, fuck, I got you. That’s it, fuck!” Lyonel caged you into the wall, his thrust getting sloppier as the vice-like grip of your continued orgasm pushed him to his own. And then he was coming, his one free hand grabbing your fucked out face to look into your eyes as he painted your walls with his hot cum, you looked at him… barely aware of anything outside the overstimulating pleasure from your violent orgasm and the way he kept rutting into you as you milked him dry.

He eventually stopped, staying inside you and resting his forehead on the sticky crook of your neck as you both came down from your respective orgasms.

He broke his silence as you relaxed and caressed over the spot where you’d drawn blood on his chest. “I love you.”

Was it a compulsion? He just had to ruin your last time together with that, didn’t he? You avoided his gaze as you pushed him softly from you and moving away, immediately missing how full you were just a moment ago.

“You should go, Lyonel.” You told him as you headed for a glass of water in the kitchen.

“Wha- What do you mean, were you not there just now?” He had the gall to be confused as he put himself back in his pants and walked over to you.

“Yes, I was. That was us saying goodbye.” You drank from your glass and then pushed it towards him on the kitchen island.

“Well, pardon me but that felt more to me like we were getting reacquainted with each other.” He drank the water, hoping it would clear his head and help him see what he wasn’t understanding.

“I was crystal fucking clear to you this morning, I’ll play the part for the year but we are not getting back together.” You headed for your room to get out of your damp dress, aware that he’d probably follow.

“Why fuck me then, if you’re so done with me? Huh?” He asked as he followed you over.

“I told you, I was saying goodbye. That was the last time.” You answered while you unzipped your dress and put on your robe.

He was exasperated now. “How the fuck am I supposed to know that was the last time when you were looking at me like that? You didn’t even fucking tell me.”

Chuckling, you sat on your bed, he was truly unbelievable. “Well how am I supposed to know that was us starting over? You didn’t tell me either.”

“I gave you a heartfelt fucking apology, I meant that! I was telling you I’d fix it, that I’d make it better! What am I fucking missing!?”

“Oh, so you’re gonna fix our marriage with one singular apology and your magical hands and dick? Please.” Walking back to the living room, you opened the door for him. “Like I said, I think you should leave Lyonel. Thanks for the fuck.”

“This is fucking cruel” He was angry now, the fucking audacity of this man…

“No, cruel is what you did to me for five years. That doesn’t go away just because you’re good at sex. Now fuck off, I have things to do.”

He grabbed his jacket and stormed out of your place, feeling like a used toy. This was not how he’d planned for today to go like. Not even in the worst scenarios he’d gone over in his head did he expect for you to use him to get some sort of closure and then kick him out of your apartment.

What the fuck just happened? He wondered as he did his own personal brand of the walk of shame.

taglist: @dear-fifi

They both were absent most of the time, but when your mom was free for a few days or weeks, she would announce it by hugging you, kissing you and grabbing your cheeks while she said “Aah, I missed you, you got my full attention!”. She’d take you on expensive trips and shopping sprees, get you the best gifts, ask about your interests, made sure you were doing well physically and in school, all the things a regular parent should do all the time, not intermittently.

And then it would go back to your new normal. She’d get busy again, planning whatever event or charity or brunch or whatever, and it didn’t include you. You did have to show up to most of those things though, and it was always announced by a new gown or fancy piece of clothing being hanged on your door, accompanied by a note from your mom with your personal itinerary for the evening. So impersonal.

So, you were lonely. You expressed it and, to their credit, they tried. Or at least, your mom did. During one of your trips with her you’d finally decided to ask, emerging from the water and crossing your arms over the poolside. “Why are you busy all the time now?” It felt a bit silly to even ask, as you rested your cheek on your arms and looked at her expectantly.

Your mom looked up from her book and sighed. “Your dad worked very hard to get to where we are now, I have a new job now too, I have to make sure he can stay where he’s at. That includes planning a lot of things and talking to a lot of people constantly. We’re a team, him and I.” She answered softly, yet matter-of-factly.

“Why aren’t I a part of your team anymore?” You almost wanted for the pool to swallow you from the moment the words left your mouth. Why should you have to beg to be included?

She laughed, she actually laughed a little. “Don’t be silly, you ARE part of our team. You just don’t have to do as much as we do, and we are doing all of this so you can have a future and don’t have to worry about us as much when we get older. Why do you think you’re always with us at these things? We need to present a united front!” Your mom looked at you like you were being unreasonable.

“I just miss it when we hung out more. The three of us. He was busy most of the time anyway, but he was more present, you were more present.”

She’d gotten annoyed with that.

“I’m here now, aren’t I? We’re trying our best, bug. It’ll eventually slow down and get easier, we’re just getting used to it.” She’d said it so casually, like the months of neglect wouldn’t add up, like they wouldn’t turn into years. Or maybe, like she didn’t care if they did.

Because eight years went by and nothing really slowed down. Your routine had been set, even as you’d grown. The only thing that eventually changed was that you’d moved out of your parents gigantic house and into the one Lyonel had gotten for you.

--

Now you were here. Inside an open-concept penthouse apartment you’d quietly acquired a few months back, when you’d finally realized the marriage was over.

After the movers had left (way past midnight, you did have a lot of stuff) you expected to break down, but the tears never came. You walked towards the terrace and found that you felt absolutely nothing, which in turn made you a little annoyed. The view from there was beautiful though, especially with the storm that was brewing, you sat there and couldn’t help but think about all the changes that were coming starting tomorrow morning.

By the time the pitter-patter began, you started to feel more relaxed than you’d been in months, watching the lightning far away in the skyline and listening to the crackling of thunder every so often. Droplets dripped down your hot skin, a welcome change from the stress of the day and the stuffy weather. The rain would soon pick up as it always did in Storm’s End, and the water of the tempest would cleanse you.

It was maybe too soon to think about “next time” or “the next person” but you knew it anyway: you would never let anyone treat you the way Lyonel had. New standards needed to be raised for whoever would be your next partner, if you ever were to get into a serious relationship again, that is. But you need to get divorced first, and that won’t be clean and simple, nothing ever is with Lyonel. He would make it a game, and an insufferable one at that. You hadn’t checked your phone in hours, it was probably dead, but the annoying texts and voicemails would probably start bright and early if you know him well.

Just because we’re not in the same house it doesn’t mean he will make it easy. Two weeks are nothing, he won’t sign the papers.

It had gotten cold out in the terrace, the wind was now equally strong as the violent, huge, blobs of water that replaced the gentle droplets from earlier, and you were drenched in newfound anger. You leaned over the railing and saw a huge lightning strike the top of a nearby skyscraper, the flashing light blinding you for a moment. Maybe it was the sigil of your house manifesting so close to you, maybe it was your terrible husband with your terrible marriage, maybe it was the fact that you were out in a lightning storm at 2 am, maybe it was all of it. You didn’t know how long you’d been screaming, you just found yourself stopping to get some air back in your lungs and wondering if it was just rainwater what was streaming down your face. All the hate and resentment you’d come to quietly reserve just for your husband was now out in the open in the middle of the storm. He’d taken you for granted, objectified you, rejected you, ignored you, forgotten about you, and worst of all: he’d thought you’d be okay with all of it, and would present your mouth for fucking.

Maybe I’ll take half of everything he owns, maybe I’ll take his board sit from him, maybe I’ll have him voted out and disowned.

Maybe I’ll strike him down.

He really should’ve married that other girl he was with before you. He never should’ve married anyone at all, the miserable cunt.

If anyone were to walk out to you, they would be concerned about your mental stability, and they would be right to. Screaming bloody murder on top of a tall building while it rains heavily isn’t exactly the picture of sanity. But it was his fault, he’d driven you to insanity. You would’ve stayed out in the rain too, for Gods know how long, if the rain hadn’t turned into painful hail.

You embraced the insanity because your head was finally clear, the storm had cleansed you after all. Tomorrow was a new day and you’d start putting your new home together and maybe plotting how to get Lyonel in enough distress that he’d sign and set you fully free.

Or maybe you were delusional. But that’s also okay, tomorrow is a new day anyway.

It was 5 am by the time you’d taken a shower, gotten dressed and revived your phone. Tomorrow is today. You weren’t wrong, the annoying texts did start bright and early, they actually started not long after you had left.

A picture of the last set of lingerie you’d bothered putting on to try and get him to touch you for longer than 8 minutes, and the words: “Did you leave this behind on purpose? Because it’s working.” The games started immediately, I see.

In truth, it had been incredibly humiliating to get rejected by your ‘tired’ husband for the umpteenth time, so you’d hidden the dreaded fucking underwear in the furthest, empty drawer of your closet.

If he wanted to play games, you’d play along. You’d humiliate him back.

But first you had a house to unpack.