Dear Wife, I Hate You (by Josephine Mbanefo) novel Chapter 59

Killian’s Pov

Walking out of that café, I was furious. No–furious didn’t even cover it. I was burning. My body was on fire, my chest felt tight. I had never been this angry before. I didn’t even know why I was so angry. But I was.

I stormed to the car. Yanked the damn door open so fast, I swear, if it was some regular car, the handle would’ve come off. I didn’t care.

I threw myself into the backseat. Slammed the door.

“Drive,” I said.

The driver just sat there, still turning the ignition like he had all the time in the world.

I growled, “I said, drive! What the hell is this?”

“Sorry sir, sorry sir,” he stuttered.

God. He was already getting on my nerves. Everything was getting on my nerves.

I sat back. Legs bouncing. Tapping. Rubbing my jaw. My eyes–still looking through the window. And there she was.

Lilith. Still talking. Still smiling. Didn’t even glance at me once. Not once.

Why? Why the hell couldn’t she just look at me? A second. That’s all I needed.

What were they still discussing? What was she saying to that so–called brother?

When did she even have a stepbrother? Where the hell did Zack come from?

I clenched my fists. This wasn’t supposed to matter. It wasn’t supposed to bother me. But it did. It bothered the hell out of me.

Because that was my wife.

Mine.

Even if she didn’t want to accept it. Even if she kept saying I didn’t own her.

She carried my name. She slept in my bed. She walked around with my ring.

So why was she choosing someone else’s company over mine?

We got home. Mansion cold and quiet. Rose greeted me.

“Welcome sir,” she said gently.

I didn’t answer,

What was so welcoming about today? Nothing.

I went straight to my room. Took off my tie. Threw it on the bed. Pulled off my coat. My shirt.

Folded the shirt roughly, shoved it aside. Sat on the edge of my chair, picked up my phone and called Lilith’s dad.

He picked. “Hello, Mr. Williams.”

“I just have one question,” I said. “Does Lilith have a brother?”

There was a pause.

Then, “Yes. She has a brother. His name is Zack.”

That’s all I needed.

I ended the call.

My leg started tapping again. Faster this time. I dragged my fingers through my hair, tugged at the strands. My head was spinning.

So it was true?

She had a brother. A stepbrother. She was just catching up with him.

But why did that make me feel this way?

Why did it feel like she picked him over me?

Like I didn’t matter?

Why did she get under my skin like this?

I couldn’t stop the thoughts. I couldn’t shut them up.

I stood up. Fast. Reached for the lamp beside the bed. Without thinking, I hurled it across the room.

It crashed hard. Pieces flew everywhere.

My chest was rising and falling.

What was she doing to me?

Why did she make me feel so much?

I hated it. I hated feeling this way.

I never let emotions control me. But this woman–this stubborn, infuriating, beautiful woman–was crawling under my skin. Breaking walls I didn’t even know I had.

Then suddenly-

The door burst open.

My mother. My father, Standing there.

Looking at me.

And I was just standing in the middle of my room, breathing hard, with broken glass at my feet.

The door was still open.

And my mother walked in slowly, like she was stepping on glass.

“What is it?” she said gently. “What happened? Talk to me.”

I didn’t speak.

My father came closer, tried to hold my shoulder. I stepped back immediately.

“I said, nothing.” I muttered.

She looked around the room–the broken lamp, the torn shirt, my face. “You’re shattering things. Everything. What’s the problem, son? Just talk to me.”

“I said nothing is the problem!” My voice came out louder than I expected. Harsh. Sharp.

My father stepped in, firm and angry. “Don’t you dare raise your voice at my wife. If you want to go mad, do it somewhere else, not to her.”

“Honey,” my mother whispered. “It’s okay.” She held his arm. “It’s okay.”

Then she looked at me again, softer this time. “You know you can talk to me. Anytime. I’ll always listen. You’re my son. I care about you.”

“I know,” I said, my voice lower now. Almost broken. “I know.”

My father turned to her. “Let me talk to him. Alone.”

She nodded and gave me one last worried look before she walked out.

He pointed to the chair. “Sit down.”

I sat. Arms crossed. Eyes on the floor.

“What is the problem?” he asked.

“I told you, nothing,” I replied, biting back everything I really wanted to scream.

“Is it your wife?”

I looked up, squinting. “What do you mean is it your wife? You think this is your wife we’re talking about?”

He raised a brow. “Alright. Is it work, then?”

I didn’t answer. Just stared at the wall.

He sighed. “I see. You still don’t want to talk. Just like your brother. Always closed off. Never sharing.”

There was a pause.

“Let me tell you something, Killian,” he said, his voice calm but strong. “If it’s work, maybe you need to slow down. Take a break. Even just for a little while.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “But if it’s your wife… I know you’ve said you don’t have feelings for her. I know that. But if she’s making you break things, lose your mind like this, then maybe–just maybe–you need to sit with yourself and ask why.”

I swallowed hard but said nothing.

“Ask yourself what she’s doing to you. Why she gets to you this deep. And maybe, then, you’ll stop throwing lamps around the house.”

He leaned back. “When you’re ready for the real talk, come to me. I’ll be here.”

He stood up. Walked to the door.

“We’ll be heading out soon,” he added. “But not just yet.”

He looked back at me. “Take it easy, son. We all make mistakes.”

And then he left.

I stood there, still breathing heavily as he left. My chest rising and falling like I’d just run a marathon. But I hadn’t. I’d only been losing my mind.

I looked around. The broken lamp. My shirt tossed carelessly. The curtain half–drawn. My whole room looked like it had been in a fight–with me.

What the hell is happening to me?

Why am I reacting this way? Why does she get to me like this?

But no matter how I felt, there was one thing clear–I needed to know where she was.

She wasn’t coming home tonight. That much, I was sure of. Not after what happened at the café. Not after she looked at me like I was nothing… like I wasn’t even her husband.

But she was still my wife. And no matter what, I had to know where she was spending the night.

There was only one person who’d know–Emily.

And to get to Emily; I needed Maya.

So I picked up my phone and dialed my sister. “Come to my room,” I said, short and cold.

A few seconds later, she walked in, her headset still on. She looked around and froze.

“Oh my God,” she said, eyes wide. “What happened here?”

“It’s none of your business,” I snapped. “I need Emily’s number.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Emily’s number? Why?”

“I said, it’s none of your business,” I repeated. “Just give me her contact info.”

She folded her arms. “Well, she is my friend. And I can decide whether to give it to you or not. So, what’s the reason?”

I scoffed. “Since when did you and Emily become best friends? Just give me the damn number, Maya.”

“Lower your tone,” she warned. “If you want something from me, even without giving a reason, you better talk to me with respect.”

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