Don't Keep Pushing

Weston froze. The serving spoon hovered in mid-air above her plate. He tried to scoop another piece of fish, a feeble attempt to maintain his dutiful husband facade.

Sutton did not give him the satisfaction. Ignoring his outstretched hand, she stood up, the wooden legs of her chair scraping harshly against the floor. She grabbed her fork, dropped it into the kitchen sink with a loud clatter, and walked straight to the master bedroom.

The click of the lock sealed her inside the cold isolation of their room. The silence of the master bedroom pressed against her ears, a stark contrast to the loud chaos raging in her chest. She leaned her back against the cool wood of the door, sliding down until she hit the soft carpet. Shadows stretched across the room, mimicking the dark void that had swallowed her marriage.

Memories of her devoted routines clawed at her mind. They had a nanny, Maya, who came in for an hour daily to tidy up, but Sutton had always insisted on handling the intimate details of their life. She used to spend hours in the kitchen, meticulously chopping vegetables and perfecting Weston’s favorite recipes so he would have a hot meal after a grueling day at the firm. She used to iron his dress shirts and lay out his tailored suits every morning. She painstakingly maintained a pristine home.

Now, staring at the perfectly made bed, every single act of devotion felt like sheer madness.

She had put up with so much for this marriage. She had tolerated his mother, Martha. That woman held an iron grip over their finances, demanding Weston hand over half his monthly paycheck for "safekeeping." Martha claimed she needed constant proof that Sutton was not some opportunistic gold digger looking for an easy ride. Sutton had swallowed her pride, smiled through the insults, and accepted it. Their actual daily expenses were split evenly down the middle. She paid half the mortgage, half the groceries, half the utilities.

She had also endured the endless whispers of high society. The wealthy wives loved their gossip. They painted Sutton as a small-town girl who had married up, a clingy wannabe desperate for status. She bore the brunt of their scorn with a quiet smile, all because she believed in the man she married.

She used to look at Weston with deep admiration. He was the righteous, untouchable top-tier lawyer. He fought fiercely for the underdog. He stood up for unpaid factory workers.

Yet, that same paragon of justice had heartlessly thrown his own wife under the bus. He stripped away her freedom, her job, and her dignity, just to protect another woman's reputation.

A soft knock echoed through the wood against her spine.

"Sutton," Weston's voice drifted through the door. It sounded calm, measured, and infuriatingly reasonable. "Let me explain that situation."

A bitter wave of betrayal washed over her. She hugged her knees to her chest. If he had anything real to say, he should have said it a month ago. He should have defended her in front of his colleagues, his friends, and most importantly, in front of Lydia.

Instead, he had locked her away.

The memory of Elmridge Mental Hospital flashed behind her eyes. The sterile white walls smelling of harsh bleach. The heavy iron bars on the windows casting long, prison-like shadows across the linoleum floor. Weston had stood in the hospital corridor, fixing her with an icy, unforgiving glare.

"Lydie and Stella have had it rough," he had told her, his tone devoid of any warmth. "If you are going to make things worse for them, then maybe it is time you felt what being truly alone is like. You can leave Elmridge once you calm down."

He knew she was an orphan. He knew he was her only family, her only lifeline. And he used that exact knowledge to break her.

As the nurses dragged Sutton down the hall, she had caught sight of Lydia. The jobless, divorced mother stood safely behind Weston’s broad shoulder. Lydia did not even try to hide the smug, victorious smile curving her lips. She slipped into their lives smoothly, effortlessly taking Sutton's place.

Sutton remembered struggling against the nurses' grips. Through the heavy doors of the psychiatric ward, she had heard Lydia’s sweet, manipulative voice. "Wes, the doctor said I can't draw anymore, but I can find other jobs. Sutton only hurt me because she loves you too much."

Weston’s response had been lost as they shoved Sutton into a locked room.

"Sutton." Weston knocked again, his tone shifting. The polished lawyer veneer slipped, revealing a thread of genuine irritation. "Why do you hate Lydie so much? She is just a friend."

Just a friend.

The sheer audacity of the phrase pushed Sutton beyond her breaking point. The sadness evaporated, leaving behind a scorching, explosive fury. She scrambled to her feet, unlocked the door, and flung it wide open. The sudden movement caught Weston off guard. He stood in the hallway, his hand raised to knock again. He had loosened his tie, his collar undone. He looked weary, as if he were the one suffering through an unbearable ordeal.

"Your family owes Lydia," Sutton lashed out, her voice trembling with long-suppressed rage. "That is your business. Not mine."

Weston lowered his hand, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Sutton stepped out of the bedroom, refusing to back down. "You expect me to take care of your parents, manage this household, and now I am supposed to repay your debt, too? I got zero benefits from this marriage. I only got mental and physical damage."

"Sutton, lower your voice," Weston warned softly, glancing toward the front door.

"No," she snapped, staring directly into the eyes of the man whose heart had rotted with freezing detachment. "You were terrified people would talk trash about her. So you deliberately branded your own wife as violent and unstable. Her father saved your father, so you sacrificed my reputation to protect her name. You let them fire me!"

Weston stiffened. He let out a harsh breath. "I know you lost your job. I will support you. Once Lydie and Stella settle down, I will hand over the rest of my paycheck to you. We can move past this."

Sutton let out a dry, humorless laugh. He still thought he could buy her compliance. He still thought a few extra dollars could erase the trauma of being locked in a psych ward.

"What right does she have?" Sutton demanded fiercely, stepping closer. "What right does Lydia have to live in the house I bought with my own hard-earned money? What right does she have to freely spend the money you provide, while your mother treats me like a thief? And what right did you have to send me to that darned mental hospital, treating me like a rabid animal?"

Weston opened his mouth, but Sutton cut him off. She delivered her non-negotiable ultimatum, her voice turning to ice.

"Do not bother dangling carrots in front of me. I lost my career because of her. You are going to pay me 150,000 dollars. And then we are getting a divorce."

She paused, letting the words hang in the tense air between them.

"You can play house with whoever you want after that."

"I am not divorcing you," Weston shot back. There was not a single second of hesitation in his voice.

His jaw tightened. He viewed her intense anger as a temporary tantrum, a trivial matter that he thought they had already resolved the moment he allowed her to come home. He let out an exasperated sigh, immensely frustrated that she kept escalating the situation instead of falling back into her obedient role.

He reached up and roughly yanked off his tie. He tossed it toward the living room couch, but the movement was too forceful. The heavy silk fabric caught the edge of a decorative centerpiece resting on the coffee table.

The expensive piece toppled over the edge. It hit the hardwood floor with a deafening crash, shattering into a shower of sharp, jagged shards.

The sharp noise echoed through the penthouse, but it did not break the heavy tension.

Weston stared at the broken mess for a brief second before turning his sharp gaze back to Sutton. The usually composed lawyer stubbornly planted his feet. "You lost your job, and I will make it right financially. I can get you a position anywhere in the city. But divorce? That is out of the question."

He felt he had lowered his pride enough. He was the respected, admired Weston Hayes—the man who commanded boardrooms and destroyed opposing counsel with a single glance. He was trying to meet her halfway, and he expected her to know when to quit. He remained unable to comprehend the profound disgust swirling in his wife's cold eyes.

"It is all in the past," he muttered, his voice dropping to a softer register. "Can we not just let it go?"

Before Sutton could respond, the sound of the front door unlocking shattered the moment.

The heavy oak door swung open, and Lydia strolled right into their home. The scent of an expensive, sickly sweet perfume rolled in with her, instantly filling the entryway.

"Wes? Is Sutton back?" Lydia’s bright, melodic voice rang out.

Sutton turned her head. Her eyes narrowed in deep-seated disgust. Lydia, a supposedly jobless, divorced single mother with a sick toddler, was dripping in head-to-toe designer brands. She wore a pristine white Chanel dress that hugged her figure perfectly. A brand-new Coach bag dangled effortlessly from her arm. Her feet were clad in a pair of shining, expensive high heels.

It did not take a genius to figure out whose bank account funded that entire outfit. Sutton had spent the last year saving every cent, aggressively paying off their mortgage early, never once splurging on luxury goods. Meanwhile, Lydia treated Weston's wallet like her personal trust fund.

Lydia stepped further inside, the click of her heels halting abruptly as she spotted the mess in the living room. She feigned a dramatic gasp, pressing a manicured hand to her chest. She stared at the shattered shards on the floor in shock and dismay.

Instantly, Lydia weaponized her victimhood. She looked up, her eyes wide and mournful.

"Sutton," Lydia whined, taking a tentative step forward. "If you have a problem, you should take it out on me. My hand is ruined already anyway. Go ahead and slash me again if it makes you feel better."

Sutton crossed her arms over her chest, observing the performance with a flat expression.

Lydia pointed a trembling finger at the mess. "That piece is a foreign art exhibit, you know. Wes really likes it. It cost a few grand. You shouldn't destroy his things just because you are mad at me."

Sutton scoffed. The sheer audacity of the lie was almost laughable. She stared sharply at the other woman, cutting through the pathetic act.

"Lydia, with an imagination like that, you seriously missed your calling. You should be stalking celebrities for gossip sites." Sutton took a step toward the entryway, her posture rigid and unyielding. "I bought that piece with my own money. How does this involve you?"

Lydia’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She blinked, thrown off balance by the cold, hard truth.

Sutton ignored her and turned her icy glare back to her husband. "You heard her, right? That thing is a foreign exhibit. It cost 6,000 dollars. You broke it. You need to pay me for it."

Predictably, Lydia's eyes welled up with helpless, manipulative tears. She bit her lower lip, turning those wounded, tear-filled eyes toward Weston.

"Wes," Lydia murmured, her voice cracking perfectly on cue. "I thought you guys were arguing about me, so I just... I wanted to help."

Weston’s expression darkened. The sight of Lydia crying triggered his instinct to protect her. He clenched his fists at his sides, utterly fed up with Sutton's unyielding attitude. He looked at his wife, his jaw set in a hard line.

"Lydie has already forgiven you for what you did to her," Weston said. His tone carried a sharp, definitive warning. "You do not need to keep pushing."