My Wife Has Violent Tendencies

The heavy steel doors of Elmridge Mental Hospital shrieked on their hinges, parting just enough to let a slender woman slip through. Sunlight hit Sutton Hayes in the face. She raised a trembling hand to shield her eyes, her other arm wrapped tight around her aching, hollow stomach. Thirty days of systematic starvation and pitch-black solitary confinement left her dragging her feet across the concrete.

Behind her, the murmurs of the hospital staff spilled through the iron gates, clinging to her heels like shadows.

"Mr. Hayes is a saint," a nurse murmured, her voice carrying over the courtyard. "Sticking by a wife who went nuts and pulled a knife on people. Most men would have run."

An orderly scoffed. "If my wife pulled a stunt like that, I’d kick her to the curb the very same day. She is a disgrace to a man like Mr. Hayes."

Another voice drifted over, thick with pity for a woman who was not even there. "If Ms. Stafford’s father hadn’t passed away and forced her to move in with her uncle, she would have married Mr. Hayes years ago. Sutton never would have stood a chance."

Sutton lowered her hand, her eyes adjusting to the harsh July glare. A bitter smile tugged at her chapped lips. The narrative was set in stone. To the world, she was just an orphan from a dead-end town who hit the jackpot by marrying Weston Hayes, the pristine, high-powered lawyer.

Now, she wore the label of an unstable, violent woman. Fired from her prestigious job and fresh out of a psychiatric ward, the gap between her and her flawless husband seemed vast. They thought she did not deserve him. The irony burned her throat. The man who slapped that label on her, the man who condemned her to that concrete hellhole, was the flawless husband himself.

Elmridge boasted a glossy brochure promising mental rehabilitation. Behind those doors lay a nightmare. For a month, Sutton endured punishments, starvation, and sensory deprivation until her mind frayed, until they forced a confession from her lips just to survive.

She focused her gaze forward. A sleek black luxury car idled by the curb. Weston stood beside it, ending a phone call. His tailored suit lacked a single wrinkle. His handsome face carried a familiar grim, authoritative expression.

He tucked his phone away and stepped toward her. "Maya ran a bath for you. Let’s go home and wash off the bad luck."

He reached out to guide her by the shoulder. Sutton twisted her body, dodging his outstretched hand with calculated precision.

Weston usually smelled of crisp cedar and expensive cologne. Today, a wave of sickeningly sweet perfume rolled off his skin. The scent of overripe fruit invaded Sutton’s nose, turning her empty stomach. Nausea hit her in a sudden wave.

She ignored his rigid posture and bypassed the open back door where he stood. She pulled the passenger-side door open and slid into the front seat.

The driver blinked in confusion, his eyes darting between husband and wife. Weston pressed his lips into a thin line. He assumed the strict environment of Elmridge had bruised her ego. He figured she was throwing a temper tantrum over a month of confinement. He had his reasons for committing her against her will, but he decided to let her silent rebellion slide for the moment.

Weston climbed into the back seat. The driver shut the door and merged the car onto the road.

Inside the silent cabin, Sutton turned her head toward the window. She shut her eyes. The nightmare of her birthday one month ago played against the back of her eyelids, vivid and unforgiving.

Weston had brought a special guest to their home that day. His childhood friend, Lydia Stafford, arrived holding the hand of her three-year-old autistic daughter, Stella.

The moment Weston stepped out of the living room to fetch the birthday cake, Lydia’s fragile demeanor vanished. She grabbed a sharp fruit knife from the counter. Without a second of hesitation, Lydia pressed the blade against her own wrist.

"Give Weston back to me," Lydia demanded, her voice dropping its sweet octave. She threatened to slice her veins if Sutton refused. Tears streamed down Lydia’s face as she spun a tale of destiny, claiming she and Weston were meant to be, that she returned to fix the past they lost.

Sutton reacted on instinct. She lunged forward to disarm the frantic woman, her hands wrapping around the handle of the knife to pull it away from Lydia’s flesh.

Footsteps sounded in the hall. Weston walked in.

The second his eyes landed on them, Lydia released her grip on the knife and collapsed into Weston’s arms. She sobbed, shaking like a leaf. "Sutton, please don't hurt Stella. Weston and I haven't done anything. You're getting it all wrong."

Sutton stood frozen in the center of her own living room, her fingers wrapped around the knife. Her mind short-circuited.

Lydia clung to Weston’s chest, hiding her face, but she tilted her head just enough to shoot Sutton a smug, calculating glare. "Weston only let us move into your house because we had nowhere else to go. I swear I'll pay back every penny he lent to us. Just don't scare my baby, okay? She has autism."

Weston wrapped his arms tight around Lydia and the trembling little girl. He lifted his head and aimed a freezing stare at his wife. "Lydia's hands are for painting. How could you hurt her?"

Stella curled into a ball against Weston’s leg, trembling.

A dry, hollow laugh escaped Sutton’s throat. Rage choked her. The birthday party was nothing but a stage for Lydia to flaunt her hidden affair with Weston. Lydia presented an ultimatum: accept the mistress or pack up and leave.

Sutton locked eyes with Weston, her voice steady. "Believe it or not, she cut herself."

"No way," Weston shot back, not missing a single beat. He possessed an unwavering belief that nobody knew Lydia’s artistic talent better than him. She prized her hands over her own life. In his mind, zero chance existed that she would harm herself just to frame Sutton.

Sutton pointed the blade toward Lydia. "Then tell me, why did you let them live in the house I bought? Why are you giving them money? You are keeping her and her kid on the side, and I am supposed to just play the fool?"

Weston’s colleagues and friends stood clustered in the doorway, drawn by the commotion. Whispers broke out. The public embarrassment rattled Weston's polished exterior.

"My hand... Weston, it hurts," Lydia whimpered. She held out her bleeding wrist, swaying on her feet like a fragile flower about to snap in the wind.

A flicker of guilt crossed Weston’s face, but anger quickly swallowed it. He turned to his assistant hovering in the hall. "My wife has violent tendencies. Send her to Elmridge Mental Hospital."

To protect a manipulator's fragile reputation, her flawless husband threw her into an abusive hellhole.

In the present, the hum of the car engine brought Sutton back to the stifling reality of the passenger seat. Weston shifted in the back, perhaps sensing the freezing hostility radiating from the front.

"I sent you to Elmridge to keep things from getting worse," Weston said, breaking the silence. His tone carried the calm cadence of a lawyer presenting a logical defense. "You scared Stella. She ran a fever for days. They have had a hard time. You shouldn't trash Lydia like that."

Sutton opened her eyes. The bitterness inside her hardened into a calculated, freezing detachment. She looked at him through the rearview mirror.

"I picked that house," Sutton said, her voice dropping the temperature in the car. "I pay the mortgage. They are living in it, spending money from my husband. Yeah, clearly I screwed up. I should have been more generous."

Weston let out a heavy sigh, adjusting his cuffs. "Lydia doesn't blame you. She dropped the charges. It won't affect you."

Sutton stared straight ahead at the passing trees. Won't affect her. Three days after the hospital locked her in an isolation room, her firm fired her. The fake label he slapped on her destroyed the career she built from the ground up. All while Weston played the heroic savior.

Lydia and Weston shared a long history. Years ago, both their fathers fell ill. Lydia's father surrendered his own chance at treatment and donated his kidney to save Weston's father. Lydia and her mother moved away soon after. When she reappeared, she was on the run from an abusive marriage, dragging her daughter along. Weston happened to be in that city on a business trip. He swooped in, took on her divorce case, and brought them back to Steelmont.

The luxury car rolled through the gates of Crestview Homes. Before the tires even stopped moving, Sutton pushed her door open. She stepped out into the humid air and walked straight toward the lobby elevator, never glancing back at the man in the backseat.

Inside their penthouse apartment, Sutton walked straight to the master bathroom. She turned the water on scalding hot. She scrubbed her skin until it turned red, trying to wash away the stench of disinfectant, stale concrete, and the sickly sweet perfume that lingered in her memory.

When she finally emerged in clean clothes, the suffocating quiet of the apartment pressed down on her.

Maya, the housekeeper, walked out of the kitchen carrying steaming plates. "Dinner is almost ready, ma'am. Mr. Hayes picked all your favorites."

Weston sat on the living room sofa, flipping through a stack of legal documents. He peered over the rim of his gold-rimmed glasses. "Dry your hair first. I'll wait to eat with you."

An outsider looking in would see the ultimate devoted husband, putting aside his demanding caseload just to share a meal with his wife. Sutton saw right through the performance. This was his established pattern. He would deliver a crushing blow, then offer a piece of candy to smooth it over.

Weston took off his glasses, set the papers down, and walked to the dining table. He pulled out a chair. "It is a bit late today. I'll have Maya buy your favorite fish tomorrow."

Sutton walked to the table and sat down in heavy silence. She picked up her fork.

Weston excelled at keeping his emotions buried under a calm veneer. He rarely spoke unless necessary. Before Elmridge, Sutton would fill the quiet voids with endless chatter, sharing random internet gossip just to hear the sound of a voice. She would laugh, and Weston would offer a mild, composed look to remind her to tone it down.

Tonight, Sutton did not spare him a single glance. Her expression remained blank, devoid of the warmth she once gave him so freely.

Weston picked up the serving spoon. Playing the role of the attentive partner, he scooped a portion of food and placed it carefully onto Sutton's plate.

Sutton looked at the food. She used her fork, scooped up the exact portion he had just given her, and tossed it right back onto his plate.