Unconventional

Whore

Emilio's anger didn't fade; it surged, dark and consuming. Without a word, he grabbed Jennifer's arm, his grip bruising, and dragged her towards the bedroom. His silence was more terrifying than any outburst, the sharp line of his jaw and the fire in his eyes promising retribution.

"Let's go," he growled, yanking her inside the room. "I'm done with the lies. Let's see what else you've been hiding."

Jennifer stumbled behind him, her heart hammering in her chest. The bedroom, once a haven where she could momentarily escape the weight of her life, now felt like a prison. Emilio stormed to the closet, ripping the doors open with a force that made the hinges groan. He was methodical, cold, as he tore through her things.

One by one, he began pulling clothes from the rack, tossing them onto the floor like they were nothing but garbage. His eyes flicked over each piece, disgust twisting his features. "You really think this is appropriate for a mother? For my wife?"

Jennifer stood frozen, her eyes wide, tears streaming down her face. "Emilio, they're just clothes. I'm not hurting anyone."

He didn't even look at her. "These clothes are a disgrace," he said, his voice sharp as glass. "They're too tight, too revealing. You're about to be a mother, and you need to start acting like one. You're not some single woman out there looking for attention anymore."

He tossed a vibrant dress onto the growing pile on the floor, its bright fabric crumpling under the weight of his disapproval. One by one, tops and skirts followed, bright colors and flattering cuts discarded with a sneer. Each piece he tossed aside felt like a piece of her soul being torn away.

"I like those clothes, Emilio," Jennifer whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "They make me feel like myself."

Finally, he paused, looking up at her for the first time. His expression was cold, unreadable. "You don't get to feel like yourself anymore. You're not that person. You're carrying my child. That means you dress modestly, you act responsibly. No more of this," he gestured dismissively to the pile of discarded clothes. "You reflect the life we're building, not your past."

He kicked aside a pair of high heels as if they were trash. "These? Useless. You won't be needing them. You need to be practical now, not flashy."

Jennifer felt her chest constrict with every word, her heart aching as she watched him dismantle what little she had left of her identity. The floor was littered with her belongings, the vibrant colors and fabrics stark against the cold, bare floor.

Her voice was barely a whisper, choked with pain. "Please, Emilio. I don't have much left. I just need something to wear."

He looked at her, his face set in that unyielding way she had come to dread. "You'll wear what I say you can wear. Everything else goes." His hand swept over the pile of clothes like they were nothing but debris. "I'll get rid of this. You need to understand that you're not the same person anymore. You're a mother, and it's time you start acting like one."

When he finally finished, the closet was almost bare. Only a few plain, lifeless outfits remained—things he deemed suitable, things that erased the vibrancy of who she was. The room felt cold, oppressive, as though the very walls had turned against her.

Jennifer stood amidst the wreckage of her former life, feeling small, powerless, and utterly alone. The loss was deeper than clothes. It was the slow erasure of everything she once was, everything she might have been. And as she looked at the mess he had made, she realized that this was only the beginning.

——————

Emilio's fury surged like a tidal wave, swift and unstoppable. He yanked Jennifer by the arm, propelling her into the living room. His movements were sharp, driven by a wrath that darkened his face. With a single, violent motion, he tossed her phone onto the coffee table, the impact rattling the silence in the room.