‘I’ve Been Sick of You Since Our Wedding Night! You Disgust Me! Leave Me Alone!’ My Husband Shouted on Our Anniversary

**Diary Entry 12th October, 2023**

*”I’ve been sick of you since our wedding night! You disgust me! Leave me alone!”* My husband spat those words at me on our second anniversary, right in front of sixty guests.

Id spent weeks planning the eveningbooking *The Gilded Swan*, a lavish new restaurant in an old Edwardian townhouse with stained-glass windows and chandeliers. Oliver had wrinkled his nose when I showed him the pictures.

*”Why the fuss? We couldve just gone somewhere quiet. Who needs all this pretentious nonsense?”*

But I insisted. After six months of recovery from the car crash, I wanted something unforgettable. A proper celebration. Id arranged musicians, a toastmaster, even little gifts for the guests.

That evening, I smoothed the folds of my plum-coloured dress and checked the time. Oliver stood by the window, tense, staring at his reflection in the glass.

*”Whats on your mind?”* I asked.

*”Nothing,”* he muttered. *”Just hate these overblown affairs. All this showy nonsensefor what?”*

I ignored him. Two years of marriage had taught me when to hold my tongue.

My parents arrived first. Dad, ever the gentleman in his tailored suit. Mum in a dusty rose dress, clinging to me as if I might vanish. *”Im just so glad youre here, darling. After the accident, I thought Id lose my mind”*

*”Not tonight, Mum,”* I cut in gently. *”We agreedonly happy thoughts.”*

Guests filtered incolleagues from Dads firm, friends, relatives. Oliver lingered at the edges, nursing a whisky. Odd. He rarely drank.

Margaret, our head accountant, approached with a stiff smile. *”Charlotte, you look radiant! Especially after well, everything.”*

There was something off in her gaze. I brushed it aside.

The evening unfoldedspeeches, dancing, laughter. But the air thickened. Oliver avoided me, exchanging loaded glances with Margaret.

I asked him to dance. *”Not now,”* he snapped. *”Ive got a headache.”*

Later, I caught them whispering in the corridor. They froze when I appeared.

*”Whats going on?”*

*”Nothing,”* Margaret stammered. *”Just work talk.”*

Oliver glared. *”Drop it, Charlotte.”*

We returned to the party. Then, as the music faded, his voice sliced through the silence:

*”Ive been sick of you since our wedding night! You disgust me!”*

The room stilled.

I exhaled. Finallythe moment Dad and I had waited for. A flick of my wrist, and the lights dimmed. The screen behind us lit up with CCTV footage: a hospital room, three months prior. Me, unconscious. Oliver and Margaret creeping in like thieves.

*”She wont wake up,”* Olivers voice hissed from the recording. *”Doctors say shes got no chance.”*

Thenthe kiss. Right by my bedside.

Gasps filled the room. Mum screamed. Oliver lunged for the exit, but security blocked him.

*”This isnt what it looks like!”* he blustered.

*”Really?”* I tilted my head. *”Because it looks like you were planning my funeral while I fought for my life.”*

Id known about the affair. But the accident? The *timing*? Too convenient.

The next day, Dad called an emergency board meeting. Oliver and Margaret were sackedblacklisted from every reputable firm in London.

Three months on, the police found *just* enough doubt to avoid charges. But it didnt matter. The divorce papers are filed. Oliver begged for mercy*”We had years together!”*as if those years werent a lie.

Last night, I caught my reflection and smiled. No bitterness. Just quiet relief.

Some lessons carve themselves into your bones: better a sharp truth than a sweet lie. And sometimes, the best revenge is simply walking awayhead high, door slammed, key turned.