She examines my face closely.
“I hate the things you must have gone through, but I could never look at you as anything less than you are. Please don’t be ashamed because you have nothing to be ashamed of.” My Adam’s apple bobs in my throat as I drink in the vulnerability on her face. “I care about you. How can I help?”
Tears well in her eyes. “I don’t even know how to help myself,” she whispers, clutching the mug in her hands. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
My heart is breaking. I just want to take this pain away. “Should you call your therapist?” I suggest.
She shrugs, taking another sip of her drink.
“If she was here, what would she say?”
I wait her out while she considers it. “She would tell me to talk about it. To trust my friends and my family. To unburden the truth.”
“I’m a good listener,” I say. “If you want to talk, I will just listen.”
“I don’t want you to think less of me,” she admits, and I consider that a breakthrough.
“That’s an impossibility. I know who you are, Serena. The things that bastard did don’t change who you are to me.”
She looks into my eyes for a few moments, biting on her lower lip. Her chest heaves as she considers it. I’m not expecting her to confide in me, so I’m hugely surprised and enormously pleased when she does.
“He used to whip me when he considered I’d stepped out of line.” A glaze comes over her eyes as she meanders through the nightmare of her past. “If I messed up dinner, or the house wasn’t tidy enough, or I answered him back, or if I even dared to look at him when he was in one of his moods.” She knots her hands in her lap, and her cheeks turn red. “A lot of times it was because I disappointed him in the bedroom.”
I want to dig that bastard up, resurrect him, and spend days—no,weeks—torturing the fuck out of his pathetic ass.
“He was disgusted his firstborn was a girl, and he whipped me regularly when I failed to get pregnant fast enough the second time. My only saving grace was pregnancy. He left me alone both times, and I actually wished I could get pregnant again. Not just for the reprieve,” she says, setting her tea down. “My children are my greatest achievement, and I love being a mother. I wanted more kids, but it didn’t happen.”
I’m hardly surprised. That level of stress would not have made it easy.
“He hated how soft Romeo was, and he wanted another son.” Anger coats her face. “Another heir.” A muscle clenches in her jaw. “Every month when I got my period was when he was the most savage.” She leans back into the couch, pulling her knees into her chest and tucking the blanket around herself again. “He would strip me naked, tie me facedown, by my wrists and my ankles, to the bed, and whip me over and over until blood covered my back, pooling onto the sheets.”
She reaches for her mug, clutching it in a tight grip. Her voice has a faraway quality when she speaks, and she stares straight ahead. “He did it when my parents had the kids and the staff had the night off so no one would hear my screams. He would leave me there overnight, bleeding and freezing, my wrists and ankles so numb they felt like phantom limbs. One time, he forgot about me for a whole weekend. When our housekeeper found me on Monday morning, I was severely dehydrated and barely coherent. The wounds had gotten infected, and the doctor had to come. I ended up spending a week in bed, which, you know, was my fault.” A bitter, empty laugh escapes her throat. “Our housekeeper quit after having it out with Alfredo. He hit her. Threatened her. A week later, her brutalized body washed up on the shores of the Hudson. After that, none of the staff ever challenged him and everyone was too afraid to leave. He didn’t bother hiding his abuse from them after that.”
Jesus Christ. No wonder she’s so skittish. Anyone would be under the circumstances. I suspect she has never known a tender touch from a lover, and the ache in my chest expands. “I am so sorry you went through that.” I want to say more, but I’m at a complete loss for words. “He was a monster.”
She nods, still looking and sounding like she’s a million miles away. “I have thought of cosmetic surgery,” she supplies, staring into her mug as she speaks. “I know it wouldn’t completely repair the damage. It’s too severe. But it would make it more palatable, so I could maybe wear a bikini again or a lower-cut top.” Her hazel gaze pins me in place. “But I don’t want to erase them. At least, not right now. Every time I look in the mirror and see them, it reminds me of the torture I endured at his hands. One part of me hates to be reminded, but another part of me never wants to forget.” Her eyes burn with quiet resilience. “I want to remember I survived. That he tried his best to break me. And while I’m not whole, I’m still here. I still get up every day determined to do better. Determined to overcome the things he did to me. To know I’m worthy of a life and I can have one. That he didn’t take everything from me.”
I nod, understanding that sentiment, maybe more than most.
“They hurt sometimes,” she adds, taking another mouthful of her tea. “But the pain ensures I can’t forget what it was like. I want the reminder so I never end up in a situation like that ever again. I never want to experience the loss of control I felt every day of my marriage. The helplessness. The frustration. The anger. The fear.” Shucking the blanket off, she rolls her left sleeve up, her fingers tracing over the indent from the bullet wound in her arm. “And this reminds me how close I came to death. That I persevered.” A small smile turns up the corners of her mouth. “Thanks to you.”
“Thanks toyou.” I won’t let her pass all the credit to me. “I heard you screaming. I saw you wrestling with him. You fought to get away. You didn’t cower or shy away. You did everything you could to save yourself.”
“I didn’t today,” she whispers. “When that man appeared in the dressing room, I froze. I was so scared I couldn’t even scream or tell him to fuck off.”
“What did he want?” I ask, still not privy to how it went down. Serena tells me everything he said. “And he definitely sounded like a New Yorker?” I inquire.
She nods. “Yes. He wasn’t from Chicago. I would have known.”
I scrub a hand over my prickly jawline, confused and wondering what the fuck is going on.
“I knew someone was watching me that day when we left the yoga studio,” she adds, staring absently at the flickering blue flames of the fire. “I knew this was the likely consequence. That we might pay the price for Alfredo’s sins.” She puts her empty mug down. She hasn’t eaten the cookies, but at least the hot tea seems to have helped.
“We will find out who it is and deal with it.”
Her tongue darts out, wetting her dry lips. “I’m scared.”
“I know, but I’m not going to let anyone hurt you again. I promise.”
