Danger Feels Like Freedom

Milan POV

Growing up as a Bellamy meant no matter what went on behind closed doors, when you stepped out of your house, every hair had to be in place. My mother used to stand at the front door and inspect us before we left. Hair. Clothes. Shoes. Face. She could spot a wrinkle from across the room and would send us right back upstairs if something looked wrong.

A Bellamy never gave people anything to talk about. That was practically our family motto.

So when my husband of four years hit me for the first time and I ran to my parents’ house, I was shocked when the first thing my mother said to me was,

“Does makeup not exist, Milan? And what did you do to make him upset?” she asked.

I remember standing in her foyer staring at her, waiting for the rest. Waiting for her to ask if I was okay. Waiting for her to tell me I could stay. Waiting for her to get angry that her daughter had shown up with a swollen cheek and a busted lip.

None of that happened.

I caught him cheating, and I got hit for snooping.

Apparently walking into my own bedroom and finding my husband buried inside another woman was somehow my fault because I came home early. Daniel told me if I minded my business, I wouldn’t see things that upset me.

The next time, I didn’t tell anyone. I just covered it up.

That became easier than explaining.

Green concealer for redness. Peach for the purple bruises. Full-coverage foundation when my skin was yellowing around the edges. Long sleeves when he grabbed too hard. High collars when his fingers landed around my neck.

I have gotten so good at covering up the bruises I’m not even sure where my skin begins and the bruises end.

Some mornings I stand in the mirror so long I stop recognizing the woman looking back at me. I know she’s Milan Bellamy because everybody keeps calling her that, but I don’t remember when she started looking so tired.

The only time Daniel didn’t hit me was when I was pregnant with our twins.

For nine months, I thought maybe something had changed. He still yelled. He still told me what to wear, where I could go, and who I could talk to, but he stopped putting his hands on me.

I was stupid enough to think becoming a father had softened him.

The night we brought them home, he beat me every time one of them cried. If I took too long to settle them, I was getting punished.

Avi had colic for the first few months. There were nights he screamed no matter what I did. I would walk the hallway bouncing him against my chest while Adonis slept in the bassinet, praying Daniel wouldn’t wake up.

If the bedroom door opened, my entire body would tense.

I got so good at knowing which twin was about to cry that I could wake up seconds before they did.

Last month, he beat me so bad that I was in the hospital for a week.

Two cracked ribs. A concussion. Bruising everywhere the hospital gown covered.

My mother told everyone I tripped down the stairs.

My mother is great at making excuses for her perfect son-in-law.

She sat beside my hospital bed fixing the blanket around me while telling the nurse I’d always been clumsy.

Daniel sent flowers.

My mother called them romantic.

This morning, I walked in on Daniel fucking another woman in our room.

Our bed. Our sheets. The same room where my sons sometimes crawl between us when they wake up scared.

He threw a remote at me and told me to get the fuck out.

It hit the wall beside my head hard enough to crack the plastic.

Then when he finished, I was punished for interrupting him.

I stood in the bathroom afterward staring at the fresh bruise forming along my ribs and something inside me just went quiet.

So enough is enough.

I have been stashing money little by little so I can take my sons and disappear from Daniel and the Bellamy last name.

Twenty dollars here. Fifty there. Sometimes a hundred if he handed me cash for groceries and forgot to ask for the change.

I have money hidden inside the lining of an old purse, underneath a loose floorboard in the twins’ closet, behind a drawer Daniel never opens, and inside an empty tampon box because that man would never think to look there.

Every dollar means distance.

Every dollar means one more mile between my sons and the sound of their father yelling.

I don’t know exactly where we’re going yet. That part scares me. I’ve spent four years being told where to be, what to wear, what to eat, and who I could speak to. The idea of suddenly deciding everything for myself should feel exciting.

Mostly it feels terrifying.

But staying scares me more.

I find myself standing outside a tattoo shop and I look down at my wrists.

The marks are lighter now, but they’re still there. Two angry lines circling the skin that no amount of makeup really hides.

Daniel likes restraints when he’s angry enough.

I hate looking at them.

I hate remembering why they’re there.

I step inside.

The smell hits me first. Something clean and sharp mixed with ink. Music plays quietly somewhere in the back, and framed artwork covers the walls.

A caramel-skinned man with two different eye colors—one light grey and one light green—covered in tattoos looks up from a sketchbook.

His arms are completely inked, and tattoos disappear beneath the collar of his black shirt. His beard is trimmed close, his hair cut into waves, and those eyes make it impossible not to stare for a second.

His lips curl.

“You lost, sweetheart?” he asks.

“N—”

My voice comes out choked.

Embarrassment burns through me. I used to be able to walk into a room full of executives with my father and speak without thinking twice. Now one stranger asks me a question and my throat closes.

I clear it.

“No… I would like to get a tattoo,” I say softly.

“You don’t look like the tattoo type, sweetheart,” he says.

There’s amusement in his voice, but not the kind that makes my stomach tighten.

I almost ask him what the tattoo type looks like, but the words stay trapped behind my teeth.

I step closer, rubbing my wrists nervously, and he studies my every movement.

Not my breasts. Not my ass. My hands. My face. The way I keep tugging at my sleeves.

“I want to know if you can cover these?” I ask, holding my wrists out.

His expression changes immediately. The little smirk disappears.

He reaches for my wrists, and I flinch.

My entire body jerks before I can stop it.

For half a second I’m back in my bedroom with Daniel reaching for me.

“I just want to see,” he says softly.

He doesn’t touch me again.

He waits.

That gets my attention more than anything.

Daniel never waits.

I swallow before slowly holding my arm back out.

He lightly grabs one of my wrists and runs his thumb over it.

His hand is huge around mine, calloused but gentle. I keep waiting for his grip to tighten. It doesn’t.

“These are cuff marks,” he says low before his eyes meet mine.

My stomach drops.

Most people see what I want them to see. Milan Bellamy. Perfect wife. Perfect daughter. Perfect life.

This stranger looked at me for less than five minutes and saw something everybody else works hard to ignore.

“Can you cover them?” I ask.

“I can. How did you get them?” he asks.

My heart starts pounding.

There’s no accusation in his voice. No pity either. Somehow that almost makes it worse.

My fingers curl into my palm.

“That is none of your business. Thank you for your time,” I say before rushing out of the shop.

“Sweetheart—” he calls behind me, but I don’t stop.

The door closes, and I keep walking until I’m half a block away.

My hands are shaking.

I pull my sleeves down even though they’re already covering my wrists.

The way he looked at me was too much.

Not disgust.

Not pity.

Like he actually saw me.

And I’m not sure I remember what it feels like to be seen.