When she finally screamed at her husband —“Are you fucking that little bitch?!” —she expected silence. Maybe a sigh. Maybe that cold, smug voice he always used to gut her pride with surgical precision.
But instead—he roared. She had never heard him like that. Not in all their years together.
The man who once punished her with icy, intellectual contempt now shouted like a beast —
rage-fueled, chest-heaving, spitting fury. Something about psychiatric help. About calling a fucking ambulance. That she was insane. Dangerous. Unfit. But she didn’t hear most of it.
Not really.
Her ears rang with adrenaline, not words.
Her left tit was hanging halfway out of her torn top — fake, shiny, grotesquely perfect, but she didn’t even notice.
Didn’t care.
She wasn’t a wife right now.
She wasn’t a mother.
She wasn’t even Yana.
She was a fighter.
A predator.
And that girl — that sweet, innocent, soft-faced girl — was just another plastic bitch from the fitness stage trying to take what was hers.
And today?
Today she won.