When my tears finally ran dry, I wiped the damp tracks from my skin, my palms feeling cold and hollow.
A part of me wished he had just beaten me again. I could endure physical pain—it was sharp, brutal, but predictable. Flesh and bone eventually heal. But this? What he had done to my heart was a slow, agonizing murder. Even if the wound closed, it would leave a jagged, disfiguring scar across my soul forever.
Though my legs felt like lead, I forced myself to stand and walk to the bedside. My knuckles turned white as I balled my hands into fists, staring down at Joaquin's serene, sleeping face. He slept like an angel while my entire world burned around me. God, I wanted to destroy him.
I reached into my bag, grabbed my phone, and carefully saved his mistress's number into my contacts. As
