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

“Ive been sick of you since our wedding night! You disgust me! Leave me alone!” my husband spat at me on our anniversary.

Id spent weeks picking the perfect restaurant for our second anniversary. Not just any placesomewhere with atmosphere, where every detail would make the evening unforgettable. In the end, I chose *The Golden Pheasant*, a new venue in a historic townhouse with stained-glass windows and antique chandeliers.

Anthony winced when I showed him the pictures.

“Why the fuss? We could just grab a quiet dinner somewhere. Who needs all this pretentious nonsense?”

But I stood my ground. Sixty guests, a live band, a hostthe works. After the car crash six months ago, I needed something bright, something joyful, something to remind me I was still here.

The preparations took weeks. I checked everything twicethe décor, the menu, the evenings schedule, even the parting gifts. Maybe because it was my first big celebration since leaving the hospital. Or maybe because I wanted this anniversary to be perfect in every way, down to the last detail.

I smoothed the folds of my deep violet dress and glanced at the clock. Guests would arrive any minute. Anthony stood by the window, staring blankly at the street. His reflection in the glass looked tense.

“Whats on your mind?” I asked, stepping closer.

“Nothing,” he muttered with a shrug. “Just hate these overblown events. All this wasted effortfor what? A show of fake happiness?”

I stayed silent. Two years of marriage had taught me to let his jabs slide. Especially tonight. Tonight was *mine*.

***

My parents arrived first. Dad, ever the picture of effortless elegance, kissed my cheek. Mum, in a soft rose dress that suited her perfectly, pulled me into a tight hug.

“Im just so glad youre here, darling. After the accident, I thought Id lose my mind”

“Mum, not tonight,” I cut her off gently. “Tonights for happiness. We agreed.”

Next came colleagues from Dads firm, where Anthony and I both worked, then friends, then distant relatives. I greeted everyone with a smile, but my attention kept flicking back to my husband. He lingered on the edges, sipping whiskyuncharacteristic for him. He usually avoided alcohol, even at parties.

Eleanor Whitaker, our head accountant, approached me. Her smile stiffened when I turned to face her. Maybe she remembered visiting me in hospitaltubes snaking from my arms, doctors whispering grim odds.

“Charlotte, you look radiant,” she said, voice strained. “Especially considering how close you came towell, you know.”

“Thank you,” I replied smoothly. “You look lovely too.”

Something in her gaze felt off, but I brushed it aside. No point dwelling on itnot yet.

The evening unfoldedtoasts, music, dancing. On the surface, flawless. But tension coiled tighter with every passing minute.

Anthony kept his distance, exchanging only curt words with colleagues. Occasionally, his eyes flicked toward Eleanor, who pretended not to notice.

I approached him with a smile. “Dance with me? It *is* our night.”

“Not now,” he snapped. “Ive got a headache.”

“Youve been acting strange all evening.”

“Im *tired*. I hate crowdsyou know that. Stop reading into things!”

***

The hosta sharp-suited young mankept the energy high, but I barely listened. My nerves hummed beneath the surface. Only I knew how this night would end. I just had to wait.

Anthonys forced smiles grew thinner. Each stolen glance he exchanged with Eleanor sent a fresh stab through my chest, but I kept my composure, laughing with guests who gushed,

“Charlotte, were so relieved you recovered! That accident was just *awful*.”

“Yes, dreadful time,” another chimed in. “But its behind you now, thank goodness!”

I nodded, thanked them, but my mind drifted back to the hospital. Those hazy daysfragments of voices, footsteps in my room, shadows leaning over my bed.

“Sweetheart, everythings perfect!” Mum squeezed my shoulder, snapping me back. “You look *stunning* tonight.”

“Thanks, Mum.”

“Only” She hesitated. “Anthony seems tense. Is everything alright?”

“Of course,” I said lightly. “He just isnt one for parties.”

Dad joined us, slipping an arm around Mum. “Plotting something, you two?”

“Just girl talk,” I deflected.

“Darling.” Dad pulled me into a hug. “Im so proud of you. After everything Youre a fighter.”

I buried my face in his shoulder. He didnt know half of what Id fought through. And I prayed he never would.

The band struck up a slow songthe same one Anthony and I had danced to at our wedding.

I hurried to his side. “Dance with me? Like we did two years ago?”

He flinched. “Charlotte, I said *no*. Are you trying to provoke me?”

“Why would I?” I searched his face. “Whats *really* wrong?”

“Nothings wrong! Just *back off*!”

His outburst left me frozen. Then I noticed Eleanor slipping outand Anthony following. After a beat, I trailed them.

They stood in the empty hallway, voices low. At my approach, both fell silent.

“Whats going on?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Eleanor said quickly. “Just work.”

“At our *anniversary*?”

“Charlotte, *drop it*!” Anthony hissed.

“*Me*? *Youve* been off all night! I dont understand”

We returned to the ballroom. The music roared; guests swirled on the dance floor. Dad raised another toast. Eleanors hands shook as she sipped her wine, avoiding my gaze.

“Anthony, *talk* to me,” I pressed. “What arent you saying?”

“Ive had *enough*!” His voice rose sharply.

“But I just want”

“*Leave me alone!*”

The music cut out. Silence swallowed the room. And in that silence, his words rang like a death knell:

“Ive been sick of you since our wedding night! You disgust me! *Get away from me!*”

***

His words hit like a slap. The room spun. Time frozeshocked guests, Eleanors ashen face, Anthonys smug glare.

I exhaled slowly. *There it was.* The moment Dad and I had waited for.

Instead of pain, relief flooded mea weight lifting. A faint smirk touched my lips as I nodded to the host.

The lights dimmed. The projector flared to life.

Black-and-white footage filled the screena hospital room, machines beeping. Me, unconscious, tangled in wires. The timestamp: three months ago.

Dad had shown me this after Id left the hospital. “I had to monitor your care,” hed said, voice thick.

On-screen, the door creaked open. Two figures enteredAnthony and Eleanor, creeping like thieves.

“Quiet,” she whispered. “What if she wakes up?”

“She wont,” Anthony said, almost *pleased*. “The doctors gave her no chance.”

The room was so silent I could hear a pin drop. Guests gaped; Anthonys knuckles whitened on his chair.

The footage rolled onAnthony grabbing Eleanor, kissing her hungrily, right beside my bed.

“Everythings falling into place,” he murmured between kisses. “Now we can be together. Just wait a little longer”

“Anthony, *wait*.” Eleanor pulled back. “What if your wife *lives*?”

“She *wont*. I *made sure* of it.”

More clips playedtheir whispered plans, their affairs timeline (starting *before* our wedding), their glee at my supposed impending death.

I paused the video on the clearest shot: them locked in an embrace, my vitals flickering weakly in the background.

Silence.

Then

“*My God!*” Mum shrieked, lunging at Anthony. Dad held her back.

Eleanor bolted for the exit, but security blocked her.

Chaos eruptedgasps, pointing fingers, guests scrambling for phones.

“Thisthis isnt what it looks like!” Anthony stammered. “Charlotte, you misunderstood”

“Misunderstood *what*?” I stepped closer, voice icy. “You plotting over my hospital bed? Kissing her while I fought for my life?”

Dads grip tightened on my shoulder. “Should I call the police?”

“No.” I smiled coldly. “Let them go. Theyll have enough to worry about tomorrow.”

Anthonys glare couldve melted steel. “*You set this up!* This whole bloody charade”

“Yes,” I said. “Just like you set up our marriage. Our life. My *accident*.”

He stormed out, Eleanor scrambling after him.

***

Three months later, I sat across from the detective as he sighed.

“No charges. Not enough evidence.”

I