Dear Wife, I Hate You (by Josephine Mbanefo) novel Chapter 23

Killian’s Pov

I didn’t even realize when I drifted off.

One minute, she was humming beside me, fiddling with the TV remote like a child left unsupervised. The next, everything faded. But if there’s one thing I’m certain of–it’s that she watched that damn movie on the loudest setting possible. On purpose. Just to get under my skin.

I let her because I was too tired to match her chaos. Or maybe… maybe I just wanted her to burn out all that reckless energy. Maybe once she tired herself out, she’d calm down and stop trying so hard to stir me up.

I woke up to a strange silence. No background noise. No snide comments. No dramatic sighs or sarcastic “good morning, husband.”

Just… quiet.

My body ached a little, not from discomfort, but from how stiff I’d kept myself on the edge of the bed all night. Not falling off–no. Just enough distance to make sure she didn’t feel my presence and start with another performance. Space, because closeness might mean something, and I wasn’t about to give her that satisfaction.

I turned my head lazily toward her side of the bed.

She wasn’t there.

Good. Maybe she finally came to her senses and dragged herself back to her room where she belonged.

I sat up with a sigh, rubbing my hands over my face. That’s when I saw her clothes. Folded neatly, set aside like she was getting ready to shower. A fresh outfit placed nearby.

And the realization hit.

She’d used my bathroom. Took her bath. In this room.

The idea of her walking around here like she owned the place–naked, even–made something twist inside me. Not anger. Not exactly. Just something raw and uncomfortable I couldn’t name.

I looked around, scanning the room, but she was nowhere in sight.

Then the bedroom door swung open casually.

“Hi!” she chimed with that infuriating smile. “How are you, husband? Good morning. I just went to brush my teeth. Did you miss me?”

I didn’t answer.

Not because I didn’t have anything to say, but because if I opened my mouth, I might say too much. And I’m not sure what would come out.

I climbed out of bed and went straight to my desk like she wasn’t even there.

She didn’t seem to mind the silence. Of course, she never did.

She waltzed over to the walk–in closet like she’d lived here all her life. Like this wasn’t day two of a forced marriage built on bitterness, secrets, and threats.

I watched her. Against my better judgment, I watched her.

She picked out something from the wardrobe, turned, and strutted toward me like she was walking a damn runway.

Then she held it up and grinned. “These are your clothes for today,” she declared. “Chosen by me. Your wife. You look superb in them. Like a literal model.”

I stared at the outfit dangling in her hand, then looked her dead in the eyes.

“What makes you think I’d wear clothes chosen by you?” I asked, voice cool.

She didn’t feel offended. Instead, she smiled sweetly–too sweetly. That was always a red flag with her.

“Of course you would,” she said with a shrug. “Or would you rather wear something picked by one of your whores?”

I sucked in a breath and bit back the urge to respond with something harsh. “I don’t have a type this morning,” I muttered and walked past her before she could throw another jab.

The bathroom door clicked behind me, giving me the distance I needed. I didn’t even look at her again.

Of course I couldn’t undress in front of her–not with the way she looked at me sometimes. Like she was amused. Like she knew she got under my skin.

I dropped the clothes on the bathroom bench and started the shower, hoping the water would rinse away the strange tension clinging to me.

A few minutes later, I heard the door open and close. Quietly.

Good. She was gone.

For the better.

After I dried off, I glanced at the outfit still lying where she left it–neatly folded like a gift I didn’t ask for.

Against better judgment, I put it on.

It fit like a damn glove. Perfect color, perfect size. Even the tie matched the socks.

Of course it did.

But I wasn’t going to give her that satisfaction.

Skipping breakfast seemed like a smart choice. I didn’t have the energy for another verbal boxing match, not this morning.

By the time I reached work, my mind had already switched gears. The meeting had started the moment I walked in, and I dove straight into the boardroom with the other CEOS.

We were discussing new housing developments–expanding into a disputed area, compensating the people who lived there, and whether or not we’d need to demolish.

Presentations, figures, endless debates.

Hours passed like a slow–moving storm cloud.

During the break, I returned to my office, shut the door, and started sketching out plans. Ideas flowed easier when I was alone, when no one was around to question my every move.

Eventually, it was time to return.

I walked toward the boardroom, fingers grazing the phone in my pocket–just habit.

And then it started buzzing.

Lilith was calling me.

That was new.

I stared at the screen, frowning. My wife. Calling me. For the first time ever. What the hell could she possibly want?

I declined the call without a second thought and shoved the phone back into my pocket. Whatever it was, it could wait.

The next hour of the meeting passed like molasses. People talked, I listened, I contributed, my mind somewhere between zoning permits and why the hell she was calling me.

Then, just as one of the partners began another long–winded proposal, the boardroom door burst open.

Everyone turned to see who the person that burst the door open was.

And there she was. Lilith.

Poking her head through the door like this was a social gathering and not a high–stakes business meeting.

“Hi, husband,” she said brightly.

Oh, goodness. What the hell is she doing here?

The room fell into a stunned silence, all eyes glued to the doorway where my wife–my wife, of all people— stood with a smug little smile and something clutched in her hand.

I closed my eyes briefly. Just breathe, Killian.

“I’ll be right back,” I muttered, forcing a tight smile at the board members. “Continue without me.”

No one spoke. I didn’t wait for them to.

I got up, buttoned my suit jacket with more force than necessary, and strode toward her.

“I hope I’m not disturbing,” Lilith said, voice all innocent and sugary.

I didn’t answer.

Didn’t even look at her.

I just grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of the boardroom, my grip firm. Tight.

I was boiling.

Dragging her through the hallway, into the elevator, down the floors like a storm that couldn’t be stopped.

She was lucky I didn’t lose it right there in front of everyone.

“What the hell are you doing, Lilith?” I hissed under my  breath.

“Yeah, hot–tempered much?” she mumbled, but I wasn’t in the mood.

By the time we reached the ground floor, I was nearly seething. I marched her straight to the car, opened the back door, shoved her in–not roughly, but not gently either–and slid in beside her.

“Leave us,” I snapped to the driver.

The door shut and thee car was silent.

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