Prologue
MARIANA
The day I should have been the happiest was the day my life stopped feeling like my own.
Today would have been Andrew’s and my wedding anniversary. Instead of marking another year of a marriage that, if I’m being honest, never quite felt right, I’m here—at his funeral.
I stand in front of the mirror, tugging at the sleeve of my white blouse, willing the fabric to stretch farther down my wrist. The nearly faded bruise stares back at me, a sickening reminder of everything I’ve buried—everything I still refuse to let surface.
My fingers tremble as I smooth the cuff over my skin, a ritual so ingrained that I don’t even think about it anymore. Hide it, cover it, protect him—even now, even in death.
The bathroom is silent except for my breath, too shallow, too fast. Beyond the door, voices murmur—hushed whispers, quiet sobs, the rustle of tissues.
They are grieving. They are heartbroken. They miss him…I should miss him, too.
I press my hands against the sink, gripping the cool porcelain edge, and force myself to breathe. My reflection wavers,distorted by the moisture in my eyes. I blink hard, refusing to let the tears fall.
I don’t even know who they would be for—the man I lost, or the man I had to survive. The thought makes my stomach twist. Because Ididlove him…once.
Andrew had been my safe place once upon a time. He had been the man with bright blue eyes who made me laugh, who kissed me like I was something precious, who whispered promises of forever against my skin.
The man who held my hand and told me I was the best thing that had ever happened to him. The man who got down on one knee and made me believe in us. That’s the man I crave.
The one I still find myself searching for in memories, in old photographs, in the quiet moments before sleep, when my mind betrays me. But that man is long gone—in his place, there is only cruelty.
Hands that once cradled my face in tenderness became weapons, gripping too tight, shoving too hard. A voice that once whispered, “I love you”, turned sharp, cutting through me with insults that burrowed under my skin like glass shards.
The change was slow, like a storm rolling in on a clear horizon. At first, it was just a tone in his voice, a look in his eyes, an unexpected moment of silence where warmth used to be; then came the control, the accusations, the outbursts that left me shrinking smaller and smaller, afraid of saying the wrong thing, of being the wrong thing.
The first time he grabbed my wrist too hard, he apologized — held me afterward, kissed my hair, told me he didn’t mean it.
By the time he stopped apologizing, I had already learned to pretend it didn’t hurt. Even now, even here, I find myself swallowing the truth, keeping it locked away where no one else can see it—because it’s easier that way.
A soft knock at the door startles me. “Mariana?” A voice, gentle, hesitant, filters through the wood. “It’s almost time.”
Time. I straighten my spine, adjusting the collar of my blouse, making sure my sleeves are in place. The bruises are hidden; the truth is buried. I take one last look in the mirror, at the woman who mastered the art of pretending. Then, I step out of the bathroom.
The church is packed—rows of black, heads bowed, hands clasped together in sorrow. Faces blur together—family, friends, people who think they knew us, people who think they knew him. I walk forward, the weight of their gazes pressing down on me like a vice. The whispers start as soon as they see me.
“She looks so pale.”
“She must be devastated.”
“They were so in love.”
I want to laugh, I want to scream, I want to run. Instead, I stop in front of the casket.
Andrew’s body is still, his skin pale and waxen. His light brown hair is neatly brushed to the side, his lips pressed into a peaceful line. Peace…the thing he stole from me, and yet, in death, it’s the only thing he has left.
I stare at him, my hands clasped tightly in front of me to keep from shaking. I should feel something. More than this. More than just…confusion. More than the exhaustion that sits heavy in my bones. I squeeze my eyes shut, and for a second, I let myself pretend.
I imagine him opening his eyes, those bright blue eyes that used to make me feel safe. I imagine him smiling at me, brushing his fingers over my cheek. For a moment, I let myself believe in the man I loved, in the life we should have had. The life he ruined.
A tear slips free, and I don’t know if it’s for him or for me. Because now that he’s gone, I don’t know who I’m supposed to be.
For so long, my life has revolved around surviving him. The apologies, the justifications. The careful, measured steps I took to avoid setting him off. The excuses I made, the lies I told myself, the silence I forced upon myself. If he’s not here…who am I, without him?
Someone steps up beside me, offering their hand. Automatically, I take it, gripping tightly. The pressure sends a dull throb through my wrist, through the bruise I’ve hidden beneath my sleeve—a reminder.
