The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 43

"Did you really forget how you managed to trap Garrison? Do you honestly think those rumors about you drugging him came out of nowhere?"

Quinn's gaze was filled with unprecedented venom.

Sloane looked at her calmly. Instead of the anger or panic Quinn had anticipated, Sloane reacted as if she had just heard an amusing joke, the cold smile on her lips deepening.

"Drugging?"

Sloane repeated the word slowly. "If simply drugging a man was all it took to secure his marriage and love, then your tactics are far more sophisticated."

Her tone remained flat, yet every word landed heavily in the quiet space of the balcony. "The drug you use is a slow drip of psychological dependence. It's a meticulously crafted sympathy pill, a calculated poison designed to sow discord. You feed it to Garrison bit by bit, showing him that his little sister is fragile and needs protection. You feed it to Archie, teaching him that his mother is unrefined and ignorant. You feed it to the entire Foster family, convincing them that I am a vicious, ungrateful woman... Your poison works slowly, but its roots run terrifyingly deep. Am I wrong?"

Quinn's face drained of all color, her lips trembling slightly as she tried to form a rebuttal, only to find her voice completely failing her.

"As for me," Sloane said, her lips curving into a mocking smirk, "how Garrison and I began is between us. But at the very least, when we stood at the marriage registry, we were both completely sober and signed those papers willingly. Can you say the same?"

Sloane leaned in slightly, dropping her voice to a chillingly clear whisper meant only for Quinn.

"This position you've been so desperate to steal—the one you claim I only got by drugging him... I don't even want it anymore."

With that, Sloane didn't spare her another glance, turning cleanly on her heel and pushing open the glass door back into the living room.

Quinn stood completely alone in the freezing night air of the balcony, her ears ringing violently. She clenched her fists so tightly her manicured nails practically pierced her palms, but she was too consumed by a suffocating wave of resentment to feel the sting.

Though he was only five, growing up in such a large, affluent family had taught Archie exactly what to say. His sweet words and soft tone made Sloane feel a strange, sudden disconnect from her own son.

"Wow, a massive truck!" Archie exclaimed excitedly as he ripped open Quinn's gift. "Thank you, Quinn!"

In Archie's hands was a heavy-duty, die-cast alloy truck model. Its glossy paint and intricate details made it incredibly realistic—even the hood ornament and the texture of the front bumper were sharply defined. Under the living room lights, the metallic blue finish gleamed with a cold, unforgiving harshness.

The moment the full model of the truck was revealed, the breath caught violently in Sloane's throat.

A split second later, a deafening ring echoed through her skull, as if something had violently exploded inside her head. Her vision blurred instantly. The screeching of brakes, shattered glass, blinding flashes of crimson blood, the freezing downpour... and the massive, merciless grill of a metallic blue truck violently hijacked her mind.

It had happened shortly after her tenth birthday. Her mother had come to pick her up from school with an umbrella.