“You’re the only one I want,” he said. “Forever.”
Skye had come so far already—how could she say anything other than yes?
“I don’t want to wait,” he demurred when she tentatively pushed back against the idea of a “quickie wedding” at the local registry office. Skye had always imagined a big tent, a live band, dancing and games, and a multitiered cake, though Martyn made her see things differently.
“We’d only be sad all day,” he told her. “No dad there to give you away, no little sister to make fun of me in a speech. Obviously I’ll agree with whatever you want, but doesn’t it make more sense to do something just for us?”
The power of his persuasion had won, the pattern of their relationship spooling out in the same way it always had. She didn’t need to unpack all her belongings, simply store them until they found their “forever home”; it was silly to pay insurance on two cars when she could just as easily be added as an extra driver onhis; Scotland would’ve been nice for their honeymoon, but he’d already gone ahead and booked the Maldives.
It was not in Skye’s nature to provoke, nor did she want to cause unnecessary upset or appear ungrateful. It was easier to go along with his suggestions, and after a while, the balance of control tipped solely over to his side. He was in charge of the food shopping, the bill paying, their weekend plans, and trips away; he chose the restaurants they ate at, which radio station they listened to, and what they watched on television. No request was unreasonable, each stipulation presented to Skye as being in her best interests, not his. Soon he was dictating her wardrobe, her makeup style, how she did her hair, and her reading choices. The fast-paced psychological thrillers she loved were dropped off at Oxfam, replaced by a stack of Booker-nominated tomes, clothbound classics, and biographies of the powerful businessmen Martyn admired.
Their first notable argument occurred one Friday evening in the run-up to their second Christmas as a couple. Skye had finished her final pile of grading for the year and was rewarding herself with a bath and an illicit copy of a real-life magazine, featuring such stories as “I Married My Ghost” and “How I Dropped Three Dress Sizes Doing Headstands.” Such a tawdry publication would’ve been condemned to the bin by Martyn, but he was away, flying a group of rich property developers back to the Middle East.
Submerged beneath lavender-scented bubbles, a rare glass of red wine propped beside the tap, Skye was relaxed enough not to be unduly concerned when she heard the sound of a key in the lock downstairs.
“Is that you?” she called, picturing her husband slipping off his shoes, hanging up his coat and scarf, putting his wallet on the hall table.
“Where are you?” came his bark of reply. A thread of uneasewound its way through Skye. She slid farther down in the tub, water lapping at her collarbones.
“Up here,” she replied, careful to keep her own tone light. Feet sounded on the stairs, and a moment later, the bathroom door was pushed open. Martyn appeared in the gap, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes flinty. He was dressed smartly in a crisp white shirt and navy trousers, his square jaw clean-shaven, and dark hair brushed forward.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Is that a trick question?”
“It’s seven o’clock,” he said. “Why isn’t dinner on?”
Skye pushed herself lower in the water, as if retreating could quiet the discomfort.
“I didn’t know that—” she began. “I thought you were in Dubai overnight.”
“Canceled. A meeting ran over, so they decided to do a weekend in the city. Left me sitting on the bloody tarmac for three hours. Honestly, these people.” His features curled into a scowl. “You would’ve been aware of all this if you ever bothered to check your phone.”
“Ah.”
Skye’s phone was charging in the kitchen, silent mode activated so as not to disturb her peaceful evening.
“Sorry,” she said meekly. “I’ll remember to keep it with me in the future.”
Martyn dropped the toilet seat with a deliberate clatter and sat, elbows on his knees, watching her with a stillness that made her skin crawl. He hadn’t bothered to close the door behind him, and a cold draft drifted into the room. Skye watched the steam filter out into the landing.
“Do you want to get in with me?” she asked.
“No,” he said flatly.
“I’ll get out, then—”
“What’s this?”
Too late, Skye spotted the magazine on the floor. She lunged for it, but Martyn got there first. The story she’d been reading was one about a woman who’d had her own whirlwind romance, only to later discover the man she loved was a wanted serial killer living under a false identity.
“I found it in the staff room,” she said, hating that the apology was already lined up in the back of her throat. “I know it’s silly, but it’s just a bit of fun.”
“A bit of fun,” he repeated coldly. “Rotting your brain is amusing to you, is it?”
“That’s a bit judgmental,” she said, instantly regretting it. Martyn got to his feet and ripped the magazine in half, then in half again, every movement precise, controlled, deliberate. Torn bits of paper floated down onto the mat. Skye brought her knees up to her chest. The bubbles were beginning to disperse, the water rapidly cooling, though she didn’t want to move. He stood over her while she cowered, soaking wet, naked, at a loss for what to do next.
“I won’t be much longer,” she said quietly. “Why don’t you go downstairs and fix yourself a drink? There’s a bottle of red open in the—”
