Forced to Hate Him

Rip. The sound was wet and sharp.

The gauze, stiff with dried blood, resisted for a split second before peeling away. It dragged raw, healing flesh with it.

Holden flinched in his sleep, a low, guttural sound trapped in his throat.

He got these wounds in the cage. Underground fighting. Just to pay for the new jewelry I demanded. The "toxic wife" performance required it.

Glitch told me to stick to the script.

But my conscience was eating me alive. Every shallow breath he took felt like a weight on my chest.

My hands shook as I applied the antiseptic. Tears dripped from my chin, landing on his battered skin.

"Glitch, I can't do this anymore. When does he serve me the divorce papers?"

Glitch scanned the barely perceptible tremor of Holden's eyelashes.

"Divorce? Look at the data, Elise. With the way he takes a beating for you? Hes going to love you until his heart stops beating."

Chapter 1

"Thank God nobody took it. See? I told you it was pretty. Even the bow is tied perfectly."

It was ten at night.

I stood under the buzzing halo of a flickering streetlight, clutching the bouquet I had just fished out of the trash. My voice was high, trying to force a happiness I didn't feel.

Glitch responded with a cold, digital sneer inside my head.

"Market value: five bucks for the rose. Eight for the jasmine. Maybe ten for the cheap plastic wrap. Total asset value under twenty-five dollars. And you're diving into a dumpster for it in the middle of the night? You might as well climb in and live there."

I went silent. The night air was cold against my exposed arms.

"Glitch. You're mean."

Another sneer.

I had no ground to stand on. I had said far worse things to Holden only hours ago. I had slammed these very flowers onto the concrete right in front of him.

I remembered the way he bent down, his spine curved in defeat, reaching for them. I snapped at him and swatted his hand away.

"Everyone else gets massive bouquets. Instagram-worthy arrangements. And you? If you're broke, don't bother giving gifts. It's ugly. It's in the way. It's humiliating."

"Can't you earn real money? Being married to a deadbeat like you is the worst luck of my life."

It wasn't just the flowers. There was a box of fresh strawberries too.

The developers sent a fruit basket to the site office, and the foreman let the crew take the leftovers. Holden didn't eat a single one. He brought them all home. For me.

Glitch rolled its metaphorical eyes. It hated my midnight rescue mission.

"Stop obsessing over meaningless data points! Maintain the persona. You are the villain. Your sole function is to humiliate the protagonist. I am sick of this pathetic behavior."

Its voice was static and rage, urging me to go back inside.

I pretended not to hear.

I crouched down on the pavement. I carefully cleaned a stalk of jasmine and pressed it between the pages of my book.

The strawberries he wouldn't eat. The flowers he walked miles to buy because he couldn't afford the bus.

If the System thought these things were meaningless, then what actually mattered?

Chapter 2

"Next mission objective: Coerce the male lead into purchasing a luxury coat for Christmas."

That was Glitch's directive.

Holden was home early. He was balanced precariously on a wooden stool, wrestling with a burnt-out lightbulb.

The wiring in this apartment building was ancient. It was a fire hazard that we just learned to live with.

"I picked up a rechargeable desk lamp," Holden said. He didn't look down. "It's charging by the door. If the lights blow again, don't touch the fuse box. Just use the lantern until I get back."

I stood behind him, clutching a mug of hot cider.

My skin was soft, clean, and pale. Holden's hands were stained gray with grease and drywall dust. Fingers that had once known nothing heavier than a fountain pen were now covered in micro-cuts and calluses.

"I"

My throat closed up. I had to force the words past my teeth.

"Christmas is coming. You have to buy me a coat. A high-end one. I need to dress the part."

I swallowed hard, pitching my voice into a shrill demand.

"I can't properly celebrate looking like trash. If you can't afford it, don't bother coming home tonight. You useless waste of space."

I shoved my phone screen toward him. "This one. Buy it for me."

Holden scrubbed his hands in the sink until the water ran gray before he took the phone. He stared at the image for a long time.

"Just this one?"

His voice was unreadable.

Inside my head, Glitch let out a screech of static.

"Are you malfunctioning? Eighty dollars? Are you insane? That is a bargain bin knockoff! Where did you even find a coat that cheap?"

The script demanded a designer label. I cheated. I scoured a resale app. I found a three-hundred-dollar coat marked down to eighty. Free shipping.

Eighty dollars meant Holden could rest for a day. It meant less sweat. Less blood spilled on a construction site.

"Just this one?" Holden asked again.

I didn't understand the look in his eyes then. In his old life, eighty dollars wouldn't have bought a button on his suit.

But now?

He saw me looking at a second-hand coat with longing. He saw his wife treating a discount find like it was haute couture because she knew he couldn't provide anything better.

When he was on top of the world, I got nothing. Now that he was in the gutter, I was right there with him, eating bitterness.

I panicked. I thought he was hesitating because of the price. I thought I had pushed him too far.

Shame made me stumble over my lines.

"Oh. Oh, well, I I can haggle," I stammered. "I can message the seller. Maybe they'll take fifty?"

I forgot the persona. My mind was just a loop of math and fear.

Suddenly, my hands were empty.

Holden took the mug. He reheated the cider in the microwave and pressed the warm ceramic back into my palms.

"Lipstick," he said.

Outside, the winter wind howled against the thin glass. Inside, the air went still.

"A hat. A headband. A tree. Stockings. An apple. A cake."

He guided me to the sagging sofa. He crouched down in front of me so our eyes were level. His irises were dark obsidian.

"And the coat."

He reached out, hovering his hand near my cheek but not touching.

"You need all of those things," he said. "That is how you have a proper Christmas."

Chapter 3

Holden was a man of his word.

The day before Christmas, the package arrived.

It wasn't the resale bargain I had found. It was brand new. Crisp structure. Buttery soft wool blend. A vibrant, blood-red color that demanded attention.

Glitch let out a static-filled sigh of relief.

"You almost blew it. Thank God the protagonist has standards. He went to the department store. Did you honestly think he would buy second-hand trash? He is fastidious. Only someone with your brain damage would suggest a used coat."

Glitch mocked me without mercy. I didn't care.

"You said he went to the mall."

My voice was hollow.

Since the bankruptcy, Holden had been blacklisted. The corporate world slammed its doors in his face. He worked the docks, warehouses, construction sites, day labor. Cash under the table.

And I, the spoiled, toxic wife, spent every dime the moment he walked through the door.

I bit my lip until I tasted copper. "Three hundred and eighteen dollars. Where did he get that kind of cash?"

I found the answer scrolling through a local community app.

A photo was trending. It was grainy, but the profile was unmistakable. "Check out the hot window washer at the complex today."

The comments filled in the horror story.

"I live in that building. The guy on the 26th floor is a psycho. He left a heavy ceramic planter on the balcony railing. It fell. Smashed right into the washer's arm."

"Yeah, I saw it. It was a bloodbath. The washer didn't even call the cops. He just asked for a cash settlement right there on the spot. If it were me, I would have sued them into oblivion."

That night, I crept into Holden's "room." It wasn't a room. It was a corner of the living room partitioned off by a cheap, stained sheet.

Another cruelty I inflicted. I banned him from the master bedroom.

He was asleep. His breathing was shallow.

I knelt by the folding cot and carefully, so carefully, rolled up his sleeve.

The gash was four inches long.

It was angry. Purple. The stitches were uneven, likely done at a free clinic or in a bathroom mirror.

Twenty-six stories up. Hanging by a single rope. Wind howling against the glass.

Holden. When the planter hit you when the blood started soaking your sleeve were you already calculating the price of that coat?

"You didn't even tell me."

My whisper cracked in the dark.

The wound was dressed with cheap drugstore gauze. He had walked in the door acting like nothing happened. Like his arm wasn't screaming in agony.

Chapter 4

At dinner, Holden handed me an apple. Red. Shiny. Perfect.

Usually, he peeled them in one long, satisfying ribbon. Tonight, he handed it to me whole.

"You have to eat the skin," he said, his voice rough. "It keeps the luck together. My grandmother used to say if you break the skin, the luck bleeds out."

He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.

It wasn't a superstition. It was his left hand.

It hung stiff at his side. He physically couldn't grip the paring knife. He invented a clumsy lie to cover the tremor in his fingers.

A lie that only fooled the stupid, toxic woman I was pretending to be.

Later, in the dim light of the desk lamp, I changed his bandages. My fingertips ghosted over the old scars mapping his skin. A history of my greed written in his flesh.

I touched the jagged white line on his wrist. *That was the fever.* I demanded to go to the ER instead of the free clinic. He spent three days hauling bricks at a construction site. A trowel slipped.

I traced the knot of scar tissue on his shoulder. *The gold necklace.* I screamed until he got it. He took a shift as a bouncer at a dive bar. Someone took a steel pipe to his clavicle.

This scar. That burn.

My chest constricted. My lungs felt like they were filled with crushed glass. Every breath shredded me. The more I tried to suppress the sob, the faster the tears fell.

Glitchs voice crackled in my skull, annoyed.

"Stop crying. Look at the metrics. You're the one who got screwed here. If you married him a year ago? Youd be dripping in diamonds. Youd own half the city. Now? You got a basement rat. Spending his cash is the bare minimum compensation."

I should hate him. I should hate the bankruptcy, the poverty, the smell of mold in the walls.

But Holden?

He fell from the penthouse to the pavement.

He went from signing million-dollar contracts to hauling drywall. He swallowed the insults. He took the stares. He sweated under a blistering sun while people who used to fear him laughed.

And when he dragged his broken body home?

I was there. Waiting.

"You useless failure. You can't even buy me decent jewelry. If I were you, I'd jump off a bridge."

The apartment was silent.

Holden lay on the cot, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. Was he replaying it? The life he used to have? The man he used to be?

Outside, the wind screamed. Inside, his eyelashes fluttered against his cheek.

I lowered my head. I pressed my cheek into his open palm. The calluses scratched my skin.

My tears pooled there, hot and salty, soaking into the bandage on his wrist.

"Glitch," I whispered, my voice breaking. "When does he file for divorce?"

I didn't want to play the villain anymore.

The apple tasted like ash. The Christmas Eve air felt like lead.

If he divorced me

He wouldn't have to bleed for every dollar. He wouldn't need three jobs just to keep the lights on. He wouldn't have to come home broken.

Chapter 5

The question chewed on my brain all through breakfast.

Glitch was useless. "The narrative arc hasn't peaked yet."

Typical. It had a thousand insults ready when I messed up, but when I needed answers? Radio silence.

I stirred my oatmeal. It had turned into a cold, gray cement in the bowl.

The coat. The lipstick. The hat. The headband. Holden gave me everything.

I needed to give him something back. A parting gift?

Ideally before the papers were served. It would be weird to send a gift *after* the divorce decree.

*Wait. When exactly is the divorce?*

I didn't hear him walk up behind me.

"Where are you?" Holden's voice was close. Too close. "Your food is cold."

My filter was gone. The thought bypassed my brain and rolled right off my tongue.

"I'm wondering when I can divorce you."

*Snap.*

My heart slammed against my ribs. The silence was deafening.

*CRACK.*

The lightbulb overhead gave up the ghost. A sharp *hiss*, a pop, and the room plunged into gloom. The electrical failure swallowed my words.

I scrambled for the excuse. Adrenaline spiked in my blood.

"I hate this stupid light! It keeps flickering like a horror movie. It scares me!"

Holden didn't freeze. He didn't ask what I said.

He just went to fetch the ladder. He fixed the bulb. He ate his breakfast. He left.

He came back long after the sun died.

It was becoming a pattern. Earlier mornings. Later nights.

He stood in the doorway, vibrating with exhaustion.

"I found a place," he said. His voice was flat. Steady. "We move tomorrow afternoon."

He looked at me. "It has space. Big windows in the living room and bedroom."

Not like this. Not like this damp, suffocating basement. No more living like moles. No more flinching every time a bulb sizzled.

Glitch went wild.

"Here we go! This is it! The Housing Conflict Arc! You were supposed to throw a tantrum, threaten to jump off the roof, and force him to move to humiliate him but he did it himself? Off script, but okay. Mission accomplished."

Static buzzed in my ears. Glitch kept rambling.

I tuned it out. My eyes were locked on Holden.

Specifically, his arm.

Chapter 6

"The stitches tore."

I whispered it to the empty air. It wasn't just the arm.

His shoulders were a canvas of fresh violence. Deep purple bruises bloomed under the skin. Last time, it was hauling concrete. What was it today? Boxes of tile? Eighty-pound bags of concrete mix?

"Where did the money come from?" I demanded. "What did you do?"

Holden said nothing. Last time, his silence was an answer. This time, it was a wall.

So I followed the script. I let the rage take the wheel.

I screamed.

"You are useless! Is this it? Is this all you're good for? Hauling trash like a mule?"

My voice bounced off the damp basement walls.

"Why did you lose everything? Why are we living in this hole? Why are you always bleeding?"

"Look at you! You're a wreck! You're pathetic!"

I screamed until my throat tasted like iron. Until my legs gave out. I sank to the floor, burying my face in my knees.

A shadow fell over me.

Holden crouched down. He didn't yell back. He just sat there, entering my orbit.

I looked at his hand.

The wound was weeping. The skin around his knuckles was red and swollenfrostbite from the freezing wind. Only his nails remained perfect. Clean. Trimmed. The last ghost of the aristocrat he used to be.

He reached out. A tissue hovered in his palm.

Why?

I stared at it. My brain lagged. I touched my cheek.

Wet.

"Don't cry," he said.

Oh. I was leaking.

His eyes were dark. Infinite.

He wiped my face. First with the tissue. Then, when that wasn't enough, he used his fingers. Finally, he used his palm. The only part of his hand that wasn't destroyed.

Salt meets open wound.

My tears were acid. They had to burn. They had to sting the raw flesh of his wrist like fire.

But he didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. He just kept wiping, his touch steady, terrifyingly patient.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

"It's my fault," he said.

It wasn't an apology. It was a verdict. A vow.

I couldn't stop. The dam broke. My tears ran down his arm, soaking the bandages, burning him, punishing him.

And he let them.

Chapter 7

"I know what to get him."

The next morning, the second Holden left for work, I slipped out. Glitch wouldn't shut up. It kept demanding to know the target item. I kept my mouth shut.

I was steps away from the mall entrance when it happened.

Impact. Heat.

A dark stain bloomed across my chest. Coffee.

"Script activation," Glitch buzzed. "Here comes the vanity. You, the shallow wife, sneaking out to trap a rich man. Using your face as bait."

Right on cue.

The man who ran into me didn't look sorry. He looked hungry. His eyes widened, raking over me from head to toe.

Tristan.

The "lover." The Trust Fund Baby. The catalyst for the divorce arc.

He put on a performance of remorse. He insisted on lunch. He dragged me into a boutique and insisted on replacing the ruined outfit.

Before he left, my phone pinged. A transfer. One thousand dollars.

"For the shock," he said, winking. "Call it emotional damages."

I watched him walk away.

I felt like I needed a shower. His gaze lingered on my skin like a layer of grease. He didn't look at me like a person. He looked at me like a cut of steak he was considering buying.

Glitch was ecstatic.

"Finally! We are back on the rails! The side piece has entered the chat. The divorce countdown starts now. Go on, cheat. Be the adulteress. Finish the mission!"

My stomach turned.

"You are repulsive."

Glitch didn't even glitch.

"I'm honest. And lookyou wanted to buy a gift? Boom. Funds acquired. Stop complaining. I don't complain when you waste time on this sentimental garbage instead of humiliating the protagonist like you're supposed to."

Garbage.

Buying a gift was garbage.

I hated Glitch's tone. I hated the casual cruelty in its code. It always called him "The Male Lead." "The Protagonist."

It never saw the human being.

It didn't see the layers of fresh scar tissue mapping his shoulders. It didn't care that the script it forced me to read was a knife, and every word I spoke twisted the blade in Holden's heart.

Chapter 8

By the time the lock clicked, I had been waiting so long Id drifted off on the couch.

The world tilted. I woke up being lifted into the air.

"Holden."

My voice was thick with sleep.

"I bought you something."

I scrambled out of his arms and grabbed the bag Id been guarding all night.

"I don't know if you'll like it. I spent a while looking."

Holdens gaze shifted from my face to my hands. He opened the bag.

A puffer jacket.

Black. Functional. Not a statement piece.

*I wanted the white one.*

White would have made his dark eyes pop. It would have looked clean. Expensive.

But Holden lived his life in construction zones, warehouses, and greasy docks. White is a luxury tax poor people can't afford. Dust, grime, and motor oil don't forgive light colors.

His old jacket, currently dumped by the door, was stained black with grease. He must have been fixing cars today.

I cleared my throat, layering the venom back into my voice to cover my tracks.

"Don't read into it. I just can't afford for you to get pneumonia."

I crossed my arms, chin up.

"An urgent care visit costs a fortune. If you collapse and end up in the ER, don't expect me to pay the bill. Youre enough of a financial liability as it is."

He put it on.

It fit perfectly. (I had measured his shoulders while he slept).

He zipped it up, then immediately took it off. I thought something was wrong. I opened my mouth to complain, but he cut me off.

"Where did you get the money?"

I froze.

I could never read Holden. He kept everything behind a wall of ice. Sometimes, I thought I saw a cracka glimpse of softnessbut then it would seal up again.

I didn't have an answer prepared.

Glitchs voice crackled with malicious glee.

"Plot twist: While you were batting your eyelashes at the Trust Fund Baby, the Protagonist was literally across the street. Hauling crates. He saw the transfer. He watched you take the lover's money and buy him a gift. Technically, isn't that just Robin Hood logic? Rob the rich, clothe the poor?"

*Across the street?*

He saw Tristan transfer the money? He was breaking his back to feed me, and he watched me flirting with another man?

"Where did the money come from, Elise?"

He asked again. His voice dropped. Hard. Commanding.

He rarely used that tone. It terrified me. My face went pale, my mouth opening and closing without sound