Brendan’s mien turned stormy. He espied a bucket of water next to a mop nearby and poured it all over Deirdre’s face.

The chill woke Deirdre from her drug-induced stupor. Her newfound sobriety was met with more abuse. “Are you awake now?! I’m your husband! Who else could you possibly want other than me?! Are you really the kind of cheap sl*t who can’t help but spread her legs for anyone with a di*k as long as he’s nice?”

‘My husband?’ Deirdre parroted inwardly.

Tears welled up in her eyes. She wanted to laugh.

For two long years, she had suffered so much because of this stupid title, and what had she gotten in return? This arduous, inescapable hell. This proclamation had ceased bringing her joy.

“Yes! I am that kind of cheap sl*t! I’ll let any man screw me! Anyone!” Her knees were wobbling, but she willed herself to stand firm. “Anyone except you, Brendan Brighthall.”

“How dare you!” he howled before he raised his hand.

Deirdre could feel the breeze of his motion. She then c