“Don’t.” I cross the room, stopping a few feet away. Close enough to see her pulse jump at her throat, far enough that she can’t accuse me of crowding. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t know what you want from me, Dimitri.”
“I want you to look at me the way you did before the event. I want you to argue with me, challenge me, show any emotion besides this polite distance.”
“You made your expectations very clear. I’m allowed no friends and no autonomy. You want perfect obedience to whatever rules you decide to impose.” She sets her book aside, finally meeting my eyes. “I’m giving you exactly what you asked for. A wife who doesn’t cause problems. Who stays in her designated space and doesn’t embarrass you in public. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“What did you want, then? For me to be grateful? To accept ownership with a smile?” Her voice remains calm, but I hear the edge underneath. “You can’t have it both ways. You can’t cage me and expect me to sing.”
“I’m not trying to cage you.”
“Yes, you are. You just don’t like how it looks when I stop fighting the bars.”
The accuracy stings. She’s right—I pushed too hard, demanded too much, and now I’m facing the consequences of getting exactly what I insisted on.
Compliance without connection. Obedience without fire. A wife who’s learned that the safest response is no response at all.
“I don’t want this,” I say quietly. “This version of you. This… absence.”
“Then what do you want?”
“You. The real you. Angry, defiant, challenging, I don’t care. Just not this.”
Janice stands, and for a moment I think she’s going to walk away again. Instead, she steps closer, close enough that I can smell her perfume, see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes.
“You want me real?” she asks. “Fine. I’m furious. I hate that you control every aspect of my life. I hate that I can’t have friends, can’t make decisions, can’t exist without your permission. I hate that you treat me like property while expecting me to respond like I’m cherished.”
“Not this again.”
“I’m not finished.” Her voice stays level, which somehow makes it worse. “Most of all, I hate that I still want you. That my body doesn’t care how you’ve caged me. That I lie awake in that guest room thinking about you instead of planning how to escape. I hate that you’ve made me this—this person who wants her captor.”
The confession lands like a physical blow.
“We’ve been over this. It’s for your own safety.”
“So you say. It’s all bullshit.” She steps back, rebuilding distance. “Now you’ve heard the real me. Are you satisfied?”
No. I’m not satisfied. I’m furious and aching and desperate to close the space between us and make her understand—
Understand what? That I’m terrified of losing her? That I’d rather have her fighting me every day than accepting this hollow version of marriage?
“Come back to our room,” I say instead.
“Why?”
“I miss you.” I stop, searching for honesty. “I made a mistake, and I’m trying to fix it.”
“By asking me to share your bed again?”
“By asking you to give me another chance. To let me prove that I can be more than the monster you think I am.”
She studies me for a long moment, and I can’t read what’s happening behind her eyes.
“One condition,” she says finally.
“Name it.”
