Referenced childhood abuse / bullying / verbal abuse
Little to no grovel
MMC takes advantage of FMC while intoxicated
This will be your only trigger warning. Continue at your own risk. If the story is too much to handle, please stop reading. Your mental health is of the most importance!
Chapter 1
Catalina’s POV
I looked at my reflection in the vanity mirror of the master bedroom, fluffing up my shoulder length, dark brown curly hair. I loved my curls. They were the one thing I got from my mother that I appreciated. My husband, Carlo, should have gotten back from work by now, so I wanted to make sure I looked freshened up for him. I had some curves to me, but not too much. I was average height at 5’5” with light brown eyes. I didn’t look too bad, as I smiled at myself.
We married six months ago in an arrangement between my father, Don Pedro Rossi, and the Spanish organized crime’s second largest gang, the Garcia gang, to tie the two different worlds together. I had initially resented my father for the arrangement, hoping I could have married into one of our Italian clans, but I soon grew to love my husband. I hadn’t expected it either. He treated me well. Actually, he treated me better than I thought I would be treated within an arranged marriage. So, I couldn’t really complain. When he came home, he was my husband. And the sex was really good too.
After making sure I look good for my husband, I headed downstairs, towards his office. However, as I was approaching Icould hear noises coming from inside, with his door slightly ajar. My heart rate picked up.
No no no, please!
I could hear a woman moaning and panting loudly.
No, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t do this. Please tell me he’s just watching porn.
I kept walking, slower now, as I approached the door. My hand reached out, shaking, as I hesitated. Did I want to see? No. Did I need to see? Yes. And I was pretty sure I was going to have my heart ripped right out of my chest.
I slowly pushed the door open a little more. And there he was, my husband, Carlo Garcia, with a woman with dark red hair that looked dyed, leaned over his desk from the side, thrusting hard into her from the back. The woman’s face was turned away from my direction, but I knew who she was. She was one of the biggest whores in the Spanish gang circle, Emily Rodriguez. What made it worse? My husband looked up, stared me in the eye, then smiled as he kept thrusting inside the other woman. I stared back at him, my whole body going numb. I looked at the woman, who was making ridiculously loud noises, then back at my husband, still smirking at me, and I turned and walked away.
My husband was a good looking man. He wasn’t star quality gorgeous, but he was a looker. He stood about 5’8” with short, almost buzzed black hair, beautifully tanned skin, a scar at his right eyebrow, one at his jaw, and one on his cheek, but these did not diminish his good looks. He had the most beautiful hazel eyes I had ever seen, and the rare times he smiled, it was beautiful. But right then? He looked ugly.
Blood was rushing to my head, making it start to throb. I had heard about Carlo and Emily hooking up before we married. I didn’t know he was still seeing her. But obviously he was. It made me sick to my stomach. How long has this been going on? Throughout our whole marriage? And he couldn’t have been discreet about it? That smile. He wanted me to see. That fucker!
As I made it to the bottom of the stairs, I felt myself go completely numb. I had experienced this before when my father or brother would beat me. I would dissociate until it was over.
Fine, if he wants a whore, he can have her. He doesn’t need me for his pleasure.
I made a decision. I returned to the master bedroom, and began packing my things into a large suitcase in the closet.
I knew I couldn’t leave. I had nowhere to go. My father would never take me back, would say I failed thefamilia, failed as a wife. My mother would support him fully, as she had always done. My brother? He would laugh at me and tell me to be a good little wife and take what I’m given. He hated me. I still didn’t understand why. Maybe because I was born a female. The worst part in all this? My father was an abusive asshole to all of us, but surprisingly, he never took a mistress. So what my husband had done, destroyed me. I knew it was possible for the men in this world to take mistresses, but I had never been given the impression that Carlo had or would. It didn’t matter now. Our marriage would be exactly as it was meant to be: just a contract.
He had been the first person to ever see the real me, behind the fear, behind the title. And this is how he treated me. Never again.
I figured he would leave me alone long enough to process and get myself presentable, so that gave me some time.
I had enough of my things to tide me over until I could come back and get the rest of my things. He could move his bitch whore to his room for all I cared. He would not be touching me again.
I dragged my things to a guest room on the other side of the mansion. I could hear the staff below whispering. They probably knew all along he had been with her. I should have known. I should have been told. Beatings? I could tolerate that. After all, I had. From both my father and brother. My mother never put hands on me, but she watched the other men in our life beat me. She was cruelest with words.Worthless, useless, ugly, whore.I had only slept with two other men besides my husband so I wasn’t sure where she got the whore part. I was 23 years old after all, and this was a new day. Men don’t get virgins anymore. That’s ridiculous.
I managed to get the suitcase into the room and dumped it a few feet from the door. I closed and locked the door, and dragged a nearby nightstand to block the door. Just in case. When you got beatings from childhood on, you learned how to keep the devils out at night. He would not come into my space without my permission again. He lost that right. I would have to stay married to him, but that didn’t mean I had to fuck him or sleep in the same room with him.
I went to the attached bathroom, and stood at the sink, my hands shaking. I turned on the water and put my hands under, letting the cold water run over my hands for a few seconds. Then I lifted a handful to my face and slapped it over me. Water dripped down my face and even down my back. I didn’t care. I was still stunned.
How could he? If he wanted mistresses, why didn’t he tell me this was the way he wanted things? He led me to believe I was the only one. That lying cocksucker!
I looked up at my reflection. I had looked good and put together not more than 30 minutes ago, and now, here I was looking a fucking mess. Because of that prick! I patted my face with a towel, staring at my pale, blotchy skin.
I went back into the room and turned on the television, and made sure the sound was loud enough to drown out noises. I didn’t want to see or hear anyone tonight.
I went to the spacious king sized bed, pulled down the covers, climbed in, still fully dressed, and pulled the covers up over my head. I cried for the marriage I thought I had. I cried for the husband I fell in love with. I cried for the freedom I had lost. I cried for me.
