Goodbye, Mr. Regret novel Chapter 273

Timothy suddenly stood up, grabbed Jessica around the waist, and hauled her over his shoulder. Ignoring her struggles, he strode straight into the bedroom.

He tossed her onto the bed with little care.

Without hesitation, Timothy loosened his tie, climbed over her, and used the tie to bind her wrists together.

Jessica kicked out wildly, but he pinned her legs down with his own, holding her in place until the knot was secure.

Timothy was seething, his movements harsh. The tie, stiff and unyielding, bit painfully into Jessica’s wrists.

He leaned down, gripping her chin with cold fingers. “You think making a fool of me is fun, is that it?”

Yet he was the one trampling her dignity, her feelings…

With her hands tied, Jessica had no way to fight back.

Timothy grabbed the collar of her blouse and yanked hard.

The buttons popped off, exposing her bare skin and the pale bra beneath.

A wave of shame crashed over her.

She tried to kick him again, but Timothy pressed her legs down firmly, refusing to budge.

He’d held back for so long, the tension almost unbearable.

Every time, he would stop halfway—he didn’t want to hold back anymore.

He tore her stockings, his hands rough and impatient. Jessica’s eyes went wide with fear and humiliation, tears springing to the corners.

Her helpless, trembling form only made him want to push further.

A fire burned low in his stomach, heat radiating through him.

He longed for the days when their intimacy was effortless and warm.

Suddenly, his movements shifted—what had been brutal became gentle, as if he caught himself.

Every time, it took him ages to help her relax; if he rushed, he worried he’d hurt her.

He leaned down, kissed her lips softly, trying to ease her tension, to comfort her shaking body.

Jessica’s jaw was still caught in his grip; she wanted to bite him, to fight, but she was powerless.

Thud, thud, thud—

A knock sounded from outside.

Timothy released her lips and snapped, annoyed, “Who is it?”

“Thank you.”

Mabel understood; she smiled warmly in return.

Jessica waved goodbye.

She’d lived here seven years, and until now, she’d always been the one to handle the household problems.

The pipes in this house were top of the line—there was no way they’d burst on their own.

Unless someone did it on purpose.

Timothy had forced himself on her more than once.

She would never again believe his talk of a “civilized divorce.”

Back at her small apartment, Jessica added Marquis on social media.

She noticed the bruises forming on her wrists.

She took a photo, and just as Marquis accepted her friend request, she sent it with a message:

“Marquis, these bruises on my wrists are from my husband tying me up with his tie. Does this count as domestic abuse?”