“You know it,” he said, standing. “But let’s try to avoid needing to use it.”
Chapter 12
Oliver
Today marked the start of my second week away from Vincent and my first day back at work. When Luke had first asked me to take a week off, I’d bristled. Vincent had tried to get me to quit my job several times. At first his attempts came dressed as kindness. He’d say things like, “You don’t have to work. I make more than enough for both of us. You should enjoy life.” But when I resisted and told him I wanted to keep something of my own, his reasoning shifted and soured. He told me my job was pointless, the people there didn’t care about me, and it was a waste of my time.
I saw now what I couldn’t then. It had never been about the job, but about stripping me of anything that gave me independence. A paycheck meant autonomy. Coworkers meant witnesses. Accomplishment meant proof that I was capable and worth something. All of that threatened the version of me he needed to maintain control—helpless, dependent, easy to keep.
I got him to relent by reframing my work as harmless to his ego and convenient to him. I promised my hours wouldn’t interfere with our time, since my workday ran parallel to his. I said a separate income meant I could buy him gifts. I emphasized that working remotely meant I could still tend the house, run errands, and make his life easier. That had been the first thing that taught me how to bargain with him, how to frameautonomy as service so he would tolerate it. It didn’t stop the violence, nothing ever did, but it bought me small pockets of space to breathe.
So when Luke first encouraged me to rest, I mistook it as the same thing. But it hadn’t been about control, it was care. He didn’t want me dependent, he wanted me supported. His respect for my work showed most clearly in the small office he’d set up for me in the lofted nook at the top of the stairs before today.
He’d constructed a desk with a built-in desk lamp, and two sleek monitors sat atop a height-adjustable riser, in case I ever preferred to stand. There was a cushioned ergonomic chair, and he’d placed a stunning antique four-panel room divider made out of hand-carved wood to offer me a little more privacy in the open space.
Settling into my chair, I logged on and pulled up the company’s cloud-based messaging platform, preparing myself for the inevitable deluge. Sure enough, an endless scroll of updates awaited me. While I was grateful I’d listened to Luke’s gentle insistence that I take a week off, I was relieved to be back.
The first half of the morning dissolved into data, reviewing the analytics dashboards and sifting through campaign performance reports. I loved this aspect of my job. I found extreme satisfaction in piecing together the story that lived behind the numbers, compiling it into something presentable to the broader company, and turning it into something actionable for improvement.
For the rest of the afternoon I moved methodically through the backlog that had piled up during my week away, replying to messages, reviewing campaign briefs, and ensuring projects got back onto their timelines.
When evening approached, I powered off my laptop and went down to the kitchen to begin making dinner. While setting the table, the sound of a key turning in the lock snapped myattention to the door, my body already in motion before my mind had registered it. An old habit, one that had been carved into me by Vincent’s volatile rule. I used to wait at the door, tense with anticipation, bracing myself for whichever version of him might come through the threshold, the affectionate charmer, or the storm of anger.
I tensed under that same anxiety now. Luke entered, his arms burdened with several canvas grocery bags and a to-go cup balanced in his hand.
I rushed to help him, stretching out my hand to take one of the bags. A grateful smile spread across his lips, releasing the bag I’d grabbed. Unfortunately, I hadn’t realized he’d been holding two bags. While the first transferred successfully to me, the second dropped to the floor. The contents spilled loose. Packages of fruit fell open, and a glass jar of pasta sauce broke on impact.
My eyes flicked to Luke’s. “I... I’m sorry... I didn’t mean... I was trying to help. I should have been paying better attention. I’ll clean everything up and replace it, I swear,” I said, desperate to stave off the fury sure to come.
I turned in haste to retrieve paper towels and a broom, hoping to escape before Luke had the chance to react.
“Ollie, wait,” Luke said, reaching for my arm.
“Don’t touch me!” I yelled, stepping back. A deafening crunch filled the air, followed by a sharp burning pain in my foot—because that’s right, I was barefoot, stepping where a glass jar had shattered. I bit my lip to keep myself from crying out.
“Oof, that’s gotta bite,” Luke said his tone soft and sympathetic. “Come on.” Using him as a crutch, we hobbled down the hall toward the bathroom, Luke giving the broken pieces a wide berth so as to avoid my stepping on any more. Once inside the bathroom he sat me down on the toilet seat. “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”
Returning with the first aid kit and a large pot, Luke sank to the floor in a squat. “Let’s see what we’re working with here,” he murmured, lifting my foot and propping it on his thigh. “You have several glass splinters, but luckily they don’t look too deep. We’ll get those out using tweezers, but first we’re gonna soften your foot by putting it in some nice warm water.”
“I’m... I’m really sorry,” I said as he filled the bowl in the sink.
“Don’t sweat it. It was an accident and I share some of the blame. I shoulda made sure you had both bags before letting go. Our first whoopsie as new housemates. Bound to happen. Growing pains and all that. Though I am sorry your foot had to be sacrificed as a result of the mishap. How does it feel?” he asked placing the bowl full of soapy water on the floor and placing my foot in it.
“Stings like crazy.”
“I’ll bet. We’ll let that soak, it’ll help. I’ll go clean up and be back.”
Before I could protest, he exited the bathroom. I pinched the bridge of my nose. Shame, never content to sit quietly, began drilling its usual beratements through my head.Useless. You can’t do anything right. Luke’s going to kick you out if you aren’t careful. Who wants to live with a colossal careless fuck-up like you?
With a sigh, I dropped my head to my hands, trying to shut everything out.
That’s how Luke found me however many minutes later.
“You look like you could use this more than I thought,” he said, extending the to-go cup toward me. “Peanut butter milkshake, originally your first-day-back sweet treat, now officially reclassified as a medicinal milkshake.”
“A medicinal milkshake?”
“Yeah, now that I say that out loud, I realize the name needs some work. Medicinal milkshake sounds like I’ve laced it with marijuana. I promise there’s zero weed or weird additives. Only side effects include happiness and occasional brain freeze. Sip responsibly.”
