After the Slap

Three years ago, under the spotlight, I lost control in public for the first time. It was at Calvin Lopez's company's new product launch. As his wife, I stood quietly backstage, dressed in the gown he had personally chosen. It was then that Marty Mondale approached. She was Calvin's ex-girlfriend, wearing the same style of gown as mine but in a different color, her makeup immaculate, yet her eyes bore an unmistakable look of provocation. "Willa, do you really think Calvin loves you?" Her voice was not loud, yet just clear enough for the few reporters nearby to hear. I ignored her, wanting only to distance myself from this trouble. But she was relentless, grabbing my wrist, her fingernails almost digging into my flesh. "He has always had me in his heart. Were it not for your manipulative coercion to force a marriage, I should be the one standing by his side." The shutters around me began to click; those cameras were like countless eyes, fixed unblinkingly on me. I felt the blood rush instantly to my head; in that moment, all sense of reason shattered. I shook off her hand and raised my hand to deliver a slap. The force was so strong that even I was taken aback. Marty Mondale covered her face and took two steps back, her eyes filled with shock that quickly turned to pain. She pointed at me, her voice hoarse: "My ear... I can't hear." Amid the chaos, the security guard rushed over and restrained me. Calvin Lopez came down from the stage; he did not look at me but hurried directly to Marty Mondale's side, his tone betraying undeniable urgency. "Marty, are you alright?" I stood frozen, watching them embrace like an outsider. That day, the police took me away and sent me directly to the detention center. The detention center nights were bitterly cold, with hard beds, the acrid smell of disinfectant, and the occasional wail of sirens beyond the window. I spent the entire night awake, my mind relentlessly replaying the scenes from the press conference and Calvin Lopez's worried whisper of "Marty." Early the next morning, my lawyer arrived. He handed me a document, its cover bearing the title "Divorce Agreement." "Mrs. Stephenson, Mr. Lopez asked me to give this to you. He hopes you can sign it as soon as possible." I opened the agreement, and the terms were clearly stated: I was to leave with nothing, forfeiting all marital property. I laughed, laughter brimming with tears. Three years of marriage, and it was worth only these few sheets of paper. "I won't sign." I pushed the agreement back toward them. The lawyer sighed, "Mrs. Stephenson, Mr. Lopez said that if you refuse to sign, he will pursue legal action." "Furthermore, Miss Mondale's injury evaluation has been finalized; it is classified as a serious injury. You face a very likely prison sentence." I was stunned. I thought that slap would at most cause minor injuries; I never expected it to be so severe. But I do not regret it. At least, I vented the grievances in my heart. On the day of the trial, I wore a plain-colored outfit and stood at the defendant's dock. The courtroom was very quiet, and I could clearly hear the sound of my own heartbeat. When the plaintiff's counsel entered, I froze completely.