Riley:
The pain in my wrist tells me I messed up again.
Marcus's fingers dig into my skin like a vice, and I can feel something shifting underneath. Not broken yet. Just a warning. I paste on my smile and nod at whatever the silver-haired woman across from us is saying about her vacation home in the Hamptons.
My champagne dress cost three thousand dollars. My shoes cost eight hundred. The bruises hidden under my sleeves are free.
"Riley agrees completely, don't you darling?" Marcus's voice is smooth as honey. His grip tightens another notch.
"Absolutely," I say, and my voice doesn't shake. Two years of practice makes you good at lying.
The woman beams and walks away. Marcus releases my wrist and I resist the urge to rub it. That would be acknowledging the pain. Acknowledging means consequences later.
The charity gala glitters around us like a beautiful trap. Crystal chandeliers throwing light across Manhattan's elite. Women in designer gowns. Men in perfect tuxedos. Everyone smiling and pretending their lives are spotless.
I fit right in with the pretending.
"You're doing well tonight," Marcus murmurs near my ear. To anyone watching, it looks like a husband being affectionate. "Keep it up."
I nod. The rules are simple after two years. Smile when he wants me to smile. Laugh at his jokes even when they're cruel. Stand exactly where he positions me. Never look at other men for longer than a polite second. Never contradict him. Never pull away from his touch no matter how much it hurts.
Survive by becoming invisible.
Tonight should be like every other night. Marcus showing off his perfect prosecutor wife while making deals with people who think he's a hero. Me playing my part so well I almost forget who I used to be.
Then I make the mistake.
My throat is dry and I glance toward the bar. Just a quick look. One second, maybe two. But Marcus sees everything.
His hand finds my wrist again and this time the pain is instant and sharp. I feel bones grinding together and have to bite my lip to keep from gasping.
"We need to talk." His voice is still smooth but underneath it lives something cold and dangerous. "Now."
My stomach drops straight through the floor.
Those four words are never good. "We need to talk" means private. Private means no witnesses. No witnesses means Marcus can stop pretending to be the charming prosecutor everyone admires.
"Marcus, I didn't mean to—"
"Now, Riley."
He's already moving, dragging me through the crowd with a smile on his face. To everyone else it probably looks like he's eager to get me alone for romantic reasons. They don't see how his fingers are crushing my wrist. Don't hear the threat in his voice.
I count my breaths like my old therapist taught me before Marcus made me stop going to therapy. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. It doesn't help. The panic is already climbing my throat.
We pass couples dancing. Pass waiters carrying champagne. Pass the whole glittering lie of this world where monsters wear tuxedos and everyone pretends not to notice.
Marcus pulls me down a hallway. My heels click against marble and the sound echoes like a countdown. The bathrooms are at the end. My heart hammers against my ribs.
Maybe it won't be bad this time. Maybe he'll just yell. Maybe I can apologize enough and he'll let it go.
But I know better. Two years taught me that hoping for better only makes the crash hurt worse.
The women's bathroom door swings open under Marcus's hand. He shoves me inside and I stumble in my expensive heels. My reflection catches in the mirror. Pale face. Wide green eyes. The same terrified expression I've worn for so long I barely recognize myself anymore.
Where did Riley Monroe go? The girl who loved art museums and laughing with friends and dreaming about the future. Marcus took her piece by piece until only this hollow shell remained.
"Do you think I'm stupid?" Marcus's voice cuts through my thoughts.
I turn to face him. "No. I would never—"
"You were looking at the bar." He steps closer and I instinctively step back until I hit the sink. "At the men standing there."
"I was thirsty. I was just looking for water."
The lie tastes like ash but I need him to believe it. Need him to calm down before this gets worse.
Marcus's handsome face twists into something ugly. "Don't lie to me. I saw you. Staring at them like some desperate—"
"I wasn't staring at anyone!" The words burst out before I can stop them.
Wrong move. So wrong.
His expression goes flat and empty and that's when real fear kicks in. Angry Marcus yells and breaks things. Empty Marcus hurts people.
"You're raising your voice to me?" Each word is quiet and precise. "After everything I do for you? After I gave you this life?"
"Marcus, please—"
"You're an ungrateful little—"
The click of the lock echoes like a gunshot.
My blood turns to ice. Every muscle in my body locks up. The bathroom door is locked. We're alone. No one can interrupt. No one can save me.
Marcus sees my face and smiles. Not a nice smile. The kind of smile that says he's won and he knows it.
"Now," he says softly, moving toward me. "Let's discuss your behavior."
I back up but there's nowhere to go. The counter digs into my spine. Marcus keeps coming and I can see it in his eyes. The same look he gets right before everything goes wrong.
My hands shake. My whole body shakes. Two years of this and I still haven't learned how to be numb to the fear.
"I'm sorry." My voice comes out small and broken. "I'm so sorry. It won't happen again."
"You're right. It won't."
His hand rises and I flinch so hard I nearly fall. This is it. This is where tonight stops being bearable and becomes another nightmare I'll have to bury deep and pretend never happened.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The lock stays firmly turned. And Marcus looks at me like I'm not a person at all.
Just his property.
His to control.
His to break.