He slaps me again, on a roll now, and then punches me in the ribs, making me cry out before I can stop myself. Crying only makes it worse.
It feels like the beating goes on forever, until finally I’m on the ground, and he kicks me one last time in the stomach and spits on me.
“If you wear slacks in this house again, I’ll break your fucking legs. You’re getting married in three days. We’ve moved the wedding up.”
He leaves, and when I hear the footsteps disappear down the hallway, I curl in on myself and let the tears come.
I watch movies and read books, and I see men being kind to women in them, but that’s just fiction. People don’t really act like that.
Except Julian, who actually helped you last night.
He was kind. His touch was gentle. His eyes are hard, and he never smiles, never has a tender expression on his face, but I believed him when he said he wouldn’t hurt me.
No one has ever told me that they wouldn’t hurt me before. They haven’t even tried to lie and say they wouldn’t.
Because hurting me is inevitable.
Slowly, I pick myself up off the floor and make my way to my rooms. I have a bedroom, sitting room, and bathroom on the second floor, on the opposite side of the house from my parents. It’s quiet over here, and the only place in the mansion where I feel somewhat safe.
Of course, they wouldn’t let me have a piano here. No, that would have been too generous.
Stripping down, I stand in front of the mirror and take stock of my injuries.
It’s bad this time.
Bruises run up and down my ribs on both sides. My lip is bleeding again, and I have new bruises, including next to my eye. The strips on my knee broke open and ruined my pants.
I’m a mess.
It’s not even the pain that bothers me. Not anymore. I’ve gotten used to ignoring it.
It’s the fact that the people in my life think that this is okay. How long am I supposed to endure this before I go out of my mind?
I have only three hours before Elliott will be here to pick me up, so I get into the shower and let the hot water soothe my injuries. Once I’m out, I take some pain medicine and then get to work trying to cover the worst of it with makeup.
I choose a floor-length white sleeveless dress, and dry and curl my hair, and once I’m ready to go, I walk down to the foyer to wait for Elliott.
I don’t have to wait long.
He and my father are laughing at something, and when they see me walk in, they both smile at me, like they have a secret.
This can only be bad for me.
“There she is,” Elliott says and holds his hand out for mine. Papa knows that I don’t like to be touched, and he glares at me, willing me to ignore the offered hand so he can beat me some more.
So, I take a breath and slide my hand into Elliott’s, ignoring how sweaty his palm is.
“Hello,” I say, and keep my face blank when he leans over to kiss my cheek.
“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he whispers in my ear.
“Thank you.” I offer him a small smile, ignoring the pain in my lip, and then before I know it, we’re in his Range Rover, headed into town.
“You really do look great,” he says, offering me a smile.
“Thank you.” I swallow and glance his way. He’s sober tonight, and he looks handsome in a dark suit. Deciding to be kind and make the most of the calm, I reply, “You look nice too.”
Elliott offers me a grin that’s just this side of smarmy. It’s like he can’t help but be a pervert.
