Chapter 2 Chapter 2

The first thing I did was walk over to the small mirror I kept in the closet. The light from the hallway, a soft, yellow glow, wasn't enough, so I flipped on the overhead light. It was a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, harsh and unflattering. I looked at my reflection and saw a ghost. A handprint, a faint red smudge, was still visible on my cheek. The skin was tender to the touch. I knew it would bruise by morning, a dark secret that no one would see. He never left marks that couldn't be covered by my clothes, but my face was another story. I didn't have much makeup, just the basics, but I’d have to use it tomorrow to cover the mark.

My mind went back to the coffee. Just a simple thing, a temperature. But to him, it was a test of my servitude. He wasn't testing me to see if I was a good wife. He was testing me to see if I was still broken. And every time, I showed him that I was. It was a game I couldn't win. I moved my hand to the spot on my cheek, and a small gasp escaped my lips. The pain was real, a physical reminder of my unreality.

I changed into a pair of old, faded pajamas, pulling the t-shirt over my head. My clothes were like my room: plain, simple, and meant to be functional. There was no luxury here, no softness, nothing to make me feel human. My closet was a collection of shirts and jeans, all in various shades of gray and blue. He said it was easier to have a streamlined wardrobe, and I was too tired to argue. He didn't want me to have clothes that would stand out. He didn’t want me to have clothes that would make me feel like myself. I was just another piece of the house, a piece he owned.

I finished my nightly routine in the small guest bathroom, rinsing my face and brushing my teeth. I had to be quick. He had a set schedule, and a few minutes past my time was a few minutes that I could be in his way. I walked past the master bedroom again. The door was ajar, and I could see the edge of the king-sized bed. It was a vast, empty space, a bed made for a man who had everything but wanted more. It was his, all his. The room felt cold and sterile, a reflection of the man who slept in it. I couldn't imagine sleeping in there, surrounded by so much emptiness. My small, plain room felt more like a sanctuary. At least there, I was truly alone.

I slipped back into my room and climbed into bed, pulling the thin quilt up to my chin. The silence in my room was absolute. I was in bed before ten every night, another rule I followed. A good wife wasn't a night owl. A good wife was always ready, always prepared. I stared up at the ceiling, thinking about all the things I could have been. Twenty-seven years old, and I had nothing to show for it. All the things I used to be, used to do, used to wish, and used to yearn for were gone. I used to laugh a lot. I used to have friends. I used to feel like I had a future. But all those things were gone now, replaced by a quiet existence in a hollow town with a hollow man.

I lay in bed, the darkness a suffocating blanket. My body was still, but my mind was a whirlwind of memories and fears. My face still stung. The memory of the slap was fresh in my mind. The pain was nothing compared to the complete and utter sense of helplessness that came with it. I had no control. I was nothing more than an object, a maid, a wife, a possession.

He was in his room, and I was in mine. A wall of silence and a locked door were all that separated us. And that, I had come to realize, was my only solace. Just as the thought crossed my mind, I heard the click of the lock on my door. The quiet sound was a constant reminder that I was trapped, that he owned my freedom, my life, and even my body.

The next day felt colder, even with the sun shining outside. My cheek was a constant throb, a quiet, angry reminder of my life. I kept my head down and my hands busy. Cleaning was a way to fill the hours, a mindless task that kept the panic at bay. I scrubbed the floors, wiped down the counters, and ran a rag over the same spotless windows I had polished yesterday. I was a maid in my own life, a ghost in my own home, going through the motions to keep the peace.

I was finishing up in the living room when I heard the front door open. Vincent. I froze, my body tensing up. But the sound of his footsteps was different. He wasn't walking with his usual heavy stride; he sounded light, almost bouncy. I heard his keys hit the small bowl on the entryway table with a clatter.

"Kira!" he called out, his voice loud and full of a kind of reckless joy I hadn't heard in years.

I walked into the living room, a rag still clutched in my hand. His face was lit up with a grin. He looked like a kid on Christmas morning. It was a terrifying sight. His good moods were always a preamble to something else, something that would eventually come back to me.

"Guess what?" he said, practically glowing. He didn't wait for me to guess. "The CEO is coming down! Can you believe it? The big boss himself. He's coming to Emberhallow for a visit."

He grabbed my shoulders, and I flinched, but he didn't seem to notice. "He's been looking at my reports, Kira. My quarterly numbers are through the roof. This is it. This is my chance. He's probably going to give me a huge raise. Maybe a promotion. We're talking big money here, a real step up."

He went on and on about the CEO's reputation, his ruthless business sense, and the kind of power he wielded. I just stood there, my stomach a knot of ice. He was so happy, so oblivious. To him, this was a golden opportunity. A chance to climb the corporate ladder and get what he felt he deserved.

But to me, it was a threat.