"This doesn't look like support to me." I cross my arms.
His eyes flash in the dim closet light to something almost intimidating and his voice comes out with that cold steel. "I'm not fond of your tone."
"Yeah, well, I'm not fond of your shaming," I say, voice too steady for the churn rolling in my gut.God, this whole thing is sick."Stop being patronizing."
"Oh, so I'm the bad guy now?" He arches a brow, too controlled, like he's above the flames he started.
Then turns and mutters on the way out, "I don't have time for this. Some of us are busy with real-life problems."
My face locks. I guess this is the moment when it allcalcifies because inside? I'm bleeding. How many times did I beg him to stop treating me like a child? Told him how much that one cuts. And every time he promised, he did it anyway.
"Fine!" I yell after him. "Add another to your list! Make your own damn dinner tonight!"
I grab the cashmere scarf and hurl it at him, but it just flutters to the ground, making me want to shred it into pieces with all its elegance.
?
For the rest of the day, I mostly hide in my office, brain trapped in a loop.
Every time we cross paths in the hallway, it's the same sharp, too-loud sigh—Richard's unspoken demand for an apology.
Unlike what Ben believes, I'm usually the one who caves.
Today, I want to let my throat go hoarse with all the things I didn't say, though.
But I hold back—because betrayal dulls your right to resentment, and silence is the tax you pay for lying.
By dinner, I haven't tied my hair up the way I usually do before I cook, but it stays loose over my shoulders. Probably the best blow I've done in a while.
Like I said—there won't be any dinner.
I'm about to go see Carl.
At least one thing off my chest.
And screw Richard because here I am, stuck in front of my closet, questioning what I'm allowed to wear.
Most of it already passed his inspection, since he picked itout himself or asked Jessica, probably with exact instructions.
I wonder if all of this was to keep me from corrupting his precious idea of a wife.
Eventually, I choose a white turtleneck dress and beige heels.
Simple. Polished. It cuts just on the knees, hugging tight enough to feel my quiet defiance, and hiding the band aids underneath.
As I'm about to leave, Richard mutters something from the bathroom, half-drowned by running water. Might've been about my outfit or whatever his problem is, but I don't stop.
I shut the door and head a floor down, calling the elevator from there, so he doesn't think of following me. I can't see him now. Not when he makes me feel this small.
Still, I chin up. I've mastered pretending I have it together. The woman in the mirror knows how to turn pain into grace and grief into good posture. It works.
At least until I step into the lobby.
The punch is almost visceral, hitting the bruises I already earned today.
I can't see her face fully because it's shielded by a newspaper spread, but I can already tell she looks nothing like me.
Tall, willowy, not an ounce of extra fat on her. Hair long, platinum blonde. A pristine white dress like no grime of the city touched her. She probably floats instead of walking.
