I said no. I remember that part clearly. I refused to apologize for wanting to exist as something more than his possession.
What happened after is where the memory fractures.
I turn from the mirror and walk to my bedroom. I sit on the edge of the bed still wearing just my underwear because getting fully undressed requires energy I don't have. My phone is in my hand again. I don't remember picking it up.
Dr. Cross's number is saved under "Tuesday/Friday." Our standing appointments. I could call her right now—she's given me permission for emergency contact outside session hours—and tell her about the exhibition, about the photograph that knew too much, about meeting a man named Elias Voss who asked me what I saw and somehow made honesty feel less dangerous than pretending.
But I don't call.
Instead, I pull up my recent searches. The ones I've been doing obsessively since Gabriel died. Police reports about accidental deaths. Statistics on how many people fall from cliffs during storms. Legal definitions of self-defense versus manslaughter versus murder.
And searches about The Dominion.
I started researching it after the first visit but found almost nothing. The website is minimal—exclusive private membership, application required, no public hours. The only press mentions are from business journals profiling Lucien Armitage's real estate acquisitions. He bought the ruins of an old club five years ago, rebuilt it into something that caters to Miramont's wealthiest citizens.
What the articles don't mention is what the old club was. I had to dig through archived forums and deleted social media posts to find fragments: Dom's place, they called it. A BDSM club that operated in legal gray zones until its founder died and the whole operation collapsed.
Lucien Armitage built The Dominion on top of that foundation. Same location with a sanitized purpose.
Except it doesn't feel sanitized. It feels like wearing Gabriel's control with better lighting.
Which is probably why I keep going back.
My phone buzzes again. Unknown number. The text reads:Ms. Pope, I hope you're feeling better. The migraine must have been quite sudden. — Lucien Armitage
I stare at the message. There's no accusation in it, no demand for explanation. Just polite concern wrapped in the subtext that he knows I lied. Migraine is code for "I couldn't handle your curated trauma exhibition and fled like a coward."
I type:Much better, thank you. My apologies for leaving abruptly. The exhibition was powerful. Perhaps too much so.
His response comes thirty seconds later:Vera's work has that effect. It's meant to crack us open, not comfort us. I'm glad you experienced it, even if the experience was difficult. You're welcome at The Dominion anytime. No invitation required.
Anytime.
That's new. Last week I needed a formal invitation. Now I have open access. Which means either Lucien is genuinely interested in my patronage, or he's interested in something else.
I set down my phone. Stand. Walk to my closet where boxes are stacked against the back wall. Most contain clothes I'll never wear again—the designer dresses Gabriel chose, the jewelry he bought to mark occasions, the costumes of being Mrs. Pope. But one box is different.
I pull it down and open it. Inside are my mother's things. The few items I kept when my parents died. Her favorite scarf. Her wedding ring. A leather journal she kept during her marriage.
I've never read the journal. It felt too invasive, too much like eavesdropping on her personal life. But tonight, sitting in my bedroom, in my underwear with bruises that have healed, I open it.
The first entry is dated twenty-six years ago:
David asked me today what I'm afraid of. I told him: disappearing. Becoming so small that I forget I was ever whole. He said he'd never let that happen. I want to believe him. But I've seen what marriage does to women. How we shrink ourselves to fit into spaces men make for us. How we call it love when it's really just elaborate surrender.
My mother wrote this three months before she married my father.
She was afraid of exactly what happened to me.
I read three more entries. Each one a small excavation of my mother's fears about losing herself in marriage. But then the tone shifts. A month after the wedding:
I was wrong. David doesn't want me smaller. He wants me exactly as I am—sharp edges, opinions, the parts of myself I thought I'd have to hide. Yesterday I told him I hated his mother's pot roast, and he laughed. Said he hated it too but didn't want to hurt her feelings. We threw it away and ordered pizza. Such a small thing. But it felt like permission to be honest instead of polite. Maybe this is what partnership looks like. Not shrinking. Just... making room for each other.
The entries continue for another year, documenting a marriage that looks nothing like mine did. Arguments resolved through conversation instead of cold silence. Decisions made together instead of dictated. My mother's handwriting stays consistent throughout—no signs of someone disappearing, just someone learning to share space without losing herself.
The final entry is dated two weeks before the accident:
Lana turns twenty-four next month. She's built such careful walls around herself—independent, self-sufficient, and terrified of needing anyone. I want to tell her that needing people isn't weakness. That choosing partnership doesn't mean surrendering yourself. But she's an adult now, making her own choices. All I can do is show her what healthy love looks like and hope she recognizes the counterfeit when she sees it.
