The Slap That End 18 Years novel Chapter 1

**Inside the Fading Emerald Shadows: Quiet Storms**

**Chapter 1**

The moment Joseph slapped me, it felt as if time itself had come to a screeching halt, the world around us fading into a blur. It wasn’t just a physical blow; it was a seismic shift in our relationship. This was my fiancé, the man I had shared nearly two decades of my life with, and he had just struck me in front of our colleagues to defend another woman.

By the time the day drew to a close, I had severed all ties with him, blocking him on every platform imaginable.

To everyone else, it was utterly unfathomable.

Joseph Shaw and I had been inseparable since we were mere children, a pair since the age of six. For eighteen long years, I had been little more than his shadow, always trailing behind him, always in his orbit.

But when he discovered that I had taken my frustration out on his belongings, he confronted me at my door, his expression a mix of confusion and disbelief.

“Is that really why?” he asked, his voice laced with uncertainty. “Because I slapped you?”

I met his gaze with unwavering resolve, my voice steady as I responded, “Yes. Just because you slapped me.”

*******

The instant that slap connected, an eerie silence enveloped the room, as if the air had thickened with disbelief.

Joseph Shaw’s hand descended with a swift, fierce force, and the sharp sound of skin meeting skin echoed in my ears, making my head jerk violently to the side.

A metallic taste filled my mouth, the tang of blood mingling with the sting of tears threatening to spill. All I could hear was a high-pitched ringing, drowning out the whispers and gasps around us.

I stumbled slightly, my fingers clutching the edge of my desk for support, trembling uncontrollably. My left cheek felt numb, but that numbness quickly ignited into a fiery pain that radiated through my face.

When I finally dared to look up, I saw Joseph’s hand still suspended in the air, his knuckles white with the tension of the moment.

Joseph—my childhood sweetheart, my fiancé—had just slapped me in defense of Yvonne Foster, his secretary.

His eyes widened for a brief moment, a flicker of realization crossing his face before anger and impatience clouded his features. “Lucille, can you just stop making a scene?” he snapped, frustration lacing his tone.

A few muffled snickers broke the tension in the office, while others simply watched in morbid fascination, relishing the unfolding drama.

Yvonne stood there, her chestnut curls catching the light, glimmering as if they were spun from gold. She leaned into Joseph, her red lips curling into a mocking smirk. “Joe, don’t be so harsh. Look at her, she’s practically quaking in her boots. Almost in tears,” she taunted, a cruel glint in her eyes.

Joseph’s jaw tightened, the fire in his gaze still burning bright. “Lucille, this is a workplace, not your personal playground. Can you just knock it off?” His voice sliced through the air, sharp and frigid.

More laughter rippled through the office, a chorus of judgment that stung like a thousand needles.

I felt something warm and wet at the corner of my mouth, unsure if it was blood or the remnants of my shattered pride.

Despite that, we shared a truly innocent childhood, those precious moments where it was just the two of us against the world.

I vividly remembered a particularly frigid winter in second grade when a boy named Humbert Chapman, who sat behind me, decided to stick his chewed gum in my ponytail. The entire class erupted into a chorus of laughter, and in that moment, I felt utterly isolated.

Tears streamed down my cheeks, but my homeroom teacher merely brushed it off, saying, “Boys tease you because you’re pretty. He’s just trying to get your attention. Don’t cry.”

Her words only deepened my humiliation, making me feel smaller than ever.

That day, I wept all the way home, my heart heavy with the weight of embarrassment.

When Joseph’s father, Edward Shaw, caught wind of what had happened, he called Joseph over while he was still buried in his homework. “Joseph,” he said, “make sure to have a word with that boy from your class tomorrow.”

The following day, during recess, Joseph kicked open the back door of our classroom with fierce determination. That image remained etched in my memory for fifteen long years.

He marched straight to Humbert’s desk, his fist crashing down on it with a resounding thud.

“Listen up,” Joseph declared, grabbing Humbert by the collar, his voice still holding the softness of a child. “Lucille is my sister. If you ever bully her again, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

As he turned to leave, he offered me a reassuring pat on the head, his smile a beacon of comfort in my stormy world.

From that moment on, I trailed after Joseph like a shadow, and no matter how hard he tried to shake me off, I was always there, a constant in his life.