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My Broken Voice, My Undeniable Power Novel Cover

My Broken Voice, My Undeniable Power

The camera flashes felt like a firing squad, dragging me back to the night I lost my baby five years ago. My husband, Faron, sat in the front row, his hand on his mistress Kassie’s thigh, utterly ignoring my public humiliation. This was the thirtieth time he’d made me a joke, and it would be the last. For three years, I played the dutiful Blackwell wife, shielding Faron from his endless affairs. At a press conference, a reporter’s question about his yacht booking with Kassie shattered my facade. Faron, smiling at his mistress, completely ignored me. The last filter I viewed him through instantly shattered. Later, Kassie deliberately spilled champagne on me at a gala. Faron, instead of helping, tenderly wiped it from her. She hissed, "Faron said you just lay there. Fucking you is like fucking a dead fish." This venomous taunt, after thirty public betrayals, snapped my sanity. Chained by my mother-in-law's threats, my pain was expected. My silence demanded. But I was finally done. With a cold, empty void, I slammed the folder shut. I dropped the family crest. "Have a wonderful evening, Faron," I said, turning and walking out. I left him and his suffocating charade behind.
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Chapter 3

Elara POV:

Faron’s arms hovered in the empty space between us for exactly two seconds. Then, he lunged. His heavy hand clamped down hard onto my shoulder.

The grip was like an iron vise. I felt my collarbone grind under the sheer, bruising force of his fingers.

He leaned down, lowering his face until his mouth was inches from my ear. He used that familiar, low, gravelly voice he always deployed when he wanted to manipulate me.

"You were perfect on that stage today," Faron murmured. "A flawless Blackwell wife."

I listened to the hollow, rotting lies pouring out of his mouth. The acid in my stomach churned so violently I thought I might actually throw up on his expensive shoes.

He leaned closer. His hot breath ghosted against the sensitive skin of my neck. "Those other women are just bodies, Elara. Just distractions."

I squeezed my eyes shut. Instantly, my mind violently dragged me back to a freezing, torrential downpour in Chicago five years ago. I saw the dark alley. I saw the glint of the mugger's blade. I saw Faron throwing his body over mine, taking the knife straight to his abdomen. I saw my own hands, slick and dripping with his hot blood.

I opened my eyes. I looked at the man standing in front of me. The brave, selfless boy who had bled for me in the rain superimposed over the arrogant, cheating monster reeking of his mistress's perfume.

I felt a physical snap inside my chest. The very last thread of gratitude, the final filter of the life-saving debt that had chained me to him, disintegrated into ash.

My vision cleared. The temperature in my eyes dropped to absolute zero.

I planted my feet, twisted my shoulder violently, and ripped myself out of his grip. I took a massive step backward, putting a solid three feet of dead space between us.

Faron’s hand fell to his side. The sudden loss of my body heat against his palm made him blink in sheer disbelief. A flash of dark irritation crossed his face.

He scowled. He reached up and aggressively yanked at the knot of his silk tie. "You are being entirely too stubborn today, Elara."

I didn't argue. I didn't defend myself. I just stood there and watched him perform, studying him like a completely foreign, uninteresting specimen.

The hallway plunged into a suffocating, dead silence. The only sound was the low, mechanical hum of the air conditioning vent above us.

Suddenly, a rapid, aggressive buzzing vibrated from the inside pocket of Faron's suit jacket.

Faron flinched. His hand twitched, instinctively moving to cover his chest pocket. It was the frantic, guilty reflex of a liar caught in the act.

The bright, white light of his phone screen bled straight through the thin, expensive fabric of his suit. In the dim shadows of the corridor, it looked like a beacon.

I didn't look away. My eyes rested calmly, indifferently on the glowing rectangle against his ribs.

Faron cleared his throat. He awkwardly reached into his pocket and pulled the phone out. The screen was facing up.

The text message notification from Kassie was in bold, glaring letters.

*I left my earring in the backseat of your Maybach. Come put it on me tonight?*

Faron’s thumb slammed down on the lock button. The screen went pitch black instantly. But his jaw was tight. He knew I had seen every single word.

He opened his mouth. His eyes darted to the side as his brain scrambled to construct a pathetic, transparent lie to explain away the text.

I slowly raised my right hand. I held my palm out flat, a silent, absolute command for him to stop talking.

I looked him dead in the eyes. My voice was as casual and flat as if I were reading a grocery list.

"There is no need to lie to me, Faron," I said, pointing a single finger at the black glass in his hand.

Faron’s chest heaved. My total lack of tears, my complete absence of jealousy, stabbed directly into his massive, fragile ego.

He took a furious step forward. He reached out, his fingers hooking into claws, aiming to grab my wrist and force a reaction out of me.

I easily sidestepped his lunge. I turned my back on him and started walking down the opposite end of the corridor.

I didn't turn around. I let my words bounce off the concrete walls.

"Your phone lit up. Don't keep Kassie waiting. Go help her find her earring."

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