I throw it anyway.
Stopping means accepting. Stopping means admitting I’m trapped, that there’s no way out, that he’s won before I even had a chance to fight.
Keep trying. Keep trying. Keep?—
The last book hits the floor. I stand in the middle of the chaos I’ve created, overturned chair, scattered books, my own ragged breathing too loud in the silent room, and I go down hard.
I sink to my knees on the Persian rug, and wipe my face, forcing the tears back. My gaze lands on the wardrobe dominating the far wall like a sentinel, dark and watchful.
It’s massive. Carved mahogany, the kind of piece that takes four men to move. I don’t want to open it.
I open it anyway.
Inside, I find clothes. Dozens of them, hanging in neat rows. I pull out the first pair of jeans with trembling hands and check the label.
Levi’s 721. Size twenty-seven. My exact brand. My exact size.
A sweater next. Cream cashmere, soft as butter. Then gray. Then olive. My colors. The colors I gravitate toward in every store, every season, without even thinking about it.
I push the everyday clothes aside, my hands moving mechanically, my brain refusing to process what I’m seeing. Behind the jeans and sweaters and soft cotton t-shirts, there’s another section.
Lingerie.
I freeze.
A lace set catches the light, bra and matching underwear, the kind of thing that’s expensive. Delicate. Something I would never buy for myself, not in a million years.
I pull it out, check the tag, and see my measurements.
Red silk. Black lace with ribbons that would tie at my thighs, not my hips, my thighs. Sheer mesh sets that are completely transparent. A leather harness that makes my bile rise in my throat because it’s not clothing, it’s… decorative. Meant to display, not cover.
And white. A schoolgirl set with tiny bows and ruffles that makes me want to vomit because the implication is clear.
Not what I would choose. What someone chose for me. What someone wants to see me in. What he’s already decided I’ll wear.
I slam the wardrobe doors shut so hard the frame shudders.
My legs give out, making me sit down hard, back against the wardrobe, and dry heave into my hands. Nothing comes up. There’s nothing left. Just my body trying to reject what my brain has figured out.
The sick fuck has been planning this for months. Sitting in that café, pretending to care about my work, pretending to be charming, while he hadthiswaiting for me. While he’d already bought lingerie to dress me up like his personal fucking doll. I want to set it all on fire. I want to burn this whole beautiful room to the ground with him in it.
I no longer think he wants to kill me, it’s more twisted than that.
He wants a doll. Something pretty to dress up, keep in a beautiful room, and take out when he feels like playing.
And I’m it.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. My chest is so tight it feels like my ribs are cracking inward. He’s going to come back. He’s going to walk through that door and expect me to… what? Wear those things? Smile? Play along?
I’d rather die.
Breathe.I hearDanny’s voice, low and steady in the back of my mind. My brother, who spent two years in Walpole for assault, taught me how to survive when everything goes to shit.
Breathe and assess. You’re from Southie, Vi. You’ve seen bad men before.
In through my nose. Hold. Out through my mouth.
Bad men make mistakes.
