He pulls out just long enough to spit on his hand again and smear it between my legs, then shoves back in, raw and burning. I bite my tongue to keep from screaming. The taste of blood is sharp, real, grounding.
My body goes limp now. I let him do what he wants. It’s easier that way. If I resist, he’ll just hurt me more.
He finishes fast, hips jerking against my ass, fingers digging so hard into my shoulders I know they’ll leave bruises. He shudders, grunts, then pulls out and lets me collapse onto the floor. My legs shake so badly, I can barely stand. I don’t move. I just stay there, staring at the photo.
He tucks himself back into his sweatpants, wiping his hands on my shirt before stepping away. He grabs the coffee, now cold, and takes another sip like nothing happened.
“You made a mess,” he says, voice flat. “Clean it up before you go.”
I don’t answer. I just pull up my panties, wincing at the pain, and reach for my pants on the floor. I hold them up, assessing the damage and then use them to wipe the mess from his desk and the floor.
Eli sits back down at the computer and keeps watching the video. The woman on the screen is still crying, still on her knees. I wonder if she ever got to leave. How long did she go through this?
I walk out of the office, legs numb, head spinning. The hallway is empty, the house silent except for the sound of Eli’s video changing to his voice calling me a whore. He recorded himself raping me and made it obvious that he plans to post it.
I make it to the bathroom before I puke. When I’m done, I rinse my mouth, wash my face, and stare at the girl in the mirror for a moment before I cover it with a towel. Her eyes were red,skin blotchy, lips swollen where his ring caught them. She looked weak. Pathetic.
I ball up my ruined pants and hide them at the bottom of the trash. I put on a fresh pair, smooth my hair, and try to erase the last half hour from my mind. Thanking whatever god out there that hasn’t allowed Eli to find out about my IUD.
But I can still feel him inside me, the echo of his voice flowing down the hallway.
Fucking parasite.
I go back to the kitchen, start dinner, and pretend nothing happened.
28
Lila
Today I use thefront door instead of coming through the back. Stepping into the familiar warmth of the print shop. Two months away and nothing’s changed; same smell of paper and toner, same hum of appliances in the back room, same stack of orders waiting to be processed. But everything’s different too. I’m different. The woman who walked out of Mia’s house that day to pack her bags and leave her husband is gone. In her place stands someone new, someone still figuring out who the hell she is without Eli’s shadow looming over her.
“You guys are early,” Valerie calls from behind the counter, her smile wide and genuine. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“No, Lila refused to let us leave late. You know how she is about being early,” she laughs. But I can’t disagree.
I shrug, wincing slightly at the lingering tenderness in my ribs. “Mia snores.”
“I do not!” Mia walks in behind me, feigning offense. “I breathe with enthusiasm, that’s all.”
The laughter comes easily, surprising me. Two months ago, I wasn’t sure I’d ever laugh again. The doctors had fixed my broken ribs and sprained wrist. Yet here I am, smiling in the morning light that streams through the shop windows, feeling something close to normal.
“I got coffees,” Valerie says, pushing a fancy cup across the counter toward me. “Your usual—vanilla with an extra shot of espresso.”
The warmth of the cup against my palm is comforting, familiar. I take a sip and close my eyes, letting the rich flavor wash over me. “God, I missed this.”
“The coffee or work?” Mia asks, nudging my shoulder gently.
“Both,” I admit. “But mostly the coffee.”
They laugh again, and I feel a tightness in my chest that has nothing to do with my healing ribs. These women rammed a car through a gate to save me. They’ve housed me, fed me, held me through nightmares and panic attacks. They’ve never once made me feel like a burden, even when I know I’ve been one.
We fall into our morning routine as if I’d never left. Valerie sorts through the orders that came in overnight, separating them by priority. Mia checks the inventory, making notes of supplies we need to reorder. I settle at my desk, powering up my computer and reviewing the day’s appointments.
“Mrs. Chen’s coming at ten for her business cards,” Valerie says, passing me a file. “And the Harper wedding invitations need to be finished by closing.”
I nod, already pulling up the design templates. This is what I need. The comforting rhythm of work, of tasks with clear beginnings and ends. No complicated emotions, nomasked men watching from the shadows. Just paper and ink and deadlines.
The morning passes in a blur of customers and orders. Mrs. Chen loves her new business cards, the delicate floral design perfectly matching her tea shop’s aesthetic. The Harper invitations turn out beautifully, cream cardstock with gold foil lettering. I find myself getting lost in the work, hands steady as I adjust settings on the printer, mind focused on colors and margins instead of tomorrow’s court date.
