Elias always said I had become "tamed" since our last explosive fight. I stopped calling him a dozen times a day to track his whereabouts and no longer begged him to come home early when he traveled. Even when I found a strange lipstick smudge in his jacket pocket, I never asked a single question. This morning, before he left for the office, he was clingier than usual, insisting I personally fix his tie. Before he walked out, he sent me a bank transfer with a note: "Sweetheart, I know you have that hospital appointment today. Keep this. Spend the rest on whatever you want." I didn't text back. I just hit 'Accept.' After all, the baby was his. He should certainly pay for the procedure. 1 Seeing my silence, Elias suddenly became anxious. That feeling of being unable to grasp me made him lose control. He grabbed my chin and brought his mouth down in a punishing, aggressive kiss—hard and fast. When he finally pulled away, he wasn’t satisfied, and he bit down on my lip hard enough for me to taste the metallic tang of blood before he released me. He buried his face in my neck, his arms locked tight around my waist, like a child afraid of losing warmth. A faint, cloying scent of cheap gardenia wafted over me. I frowned, the first expression I’d shown all morning. "Skye has been shadowing you for years now. How has she still not learned? That cheap perfume is beneath you, Elias." Elias’s body stiffened. He let go of me. "She came from nothing, Finn. She doesn't care about designer labels or fancy things." I nodded, pretending to be reflective. "Or maybe she just doesn't think they're as valuable as the title of Mrs. Elias Beckett." His expression hardened. He pressed his fingers against his temples, looking utterly exhausted. "Don't be ridiculous. Skye and I are over. We’re just... family now. A brother-sister dynamic. Don't overthink this, Seraphina." Overthink? Two people who had slept together calling themselves "siblings." Didn't they feel ridiculous? I turned my head, pushed him away, grabbed my bag, and walked out the door. 2 The cold, sterile instruments scraped inside my body, a pain worse than I remembered. Yet, compared to the induced stillbirth three years ago, this was manageable. At least this time, I wasn't contemplating a leap off the hospital roof. "Where is your man? Why is he letting you go through this alone?" The woman in the bed next to me saw me struggling to sit up and quickly reached for the nurse call button. "Don't move, sweetie. Your color is terrible." I glanced at the glass window, catching my reflection. My hair was damp, cold sweat streamed down my face. I looked like a ghost crawled out of a storm drain. "You need proper care after a procedure like this. Someone should be looking after you." The woman continued to fuss. "You young people are so reckless. It's so hard to conceive. You can't just toss a baby aside." The head nurse, who knew my history, gave the woman a sharp look, silencing her. Everyone here knew I’d nearly died after the stillbirth at seven months. I had been standing in the maternity ward three years ago, happily trying out names for our son, when I saw my husband escorting Skye Collins out of the doctor's office. Skye, a charity case I'd put through college, was clutching a sonogram. What happened next is a blur. All I remember is screaming, clawing, and thrashing—a complete, unhinged lunatic. And Elias, my husband, was always, only, shielding the other woman. Until a pair of hands shoved me hard onto the cold floor. My vision was instantly washed in a blinding, bloody red. Amidst the nurses' shocked shouts, I was rushed to surgery. One moment, the life inside me was kicking; the next, it was being scraped away, ripped apart, dissolving into a pool of fluid and flesh. My world had collapsed overnight. I had lost my son, my own flesh and blood, and I saw the true face of my husband. When I climbed onto the hospital’s rooftop ledge, Elias dragged Skye up to apologize. He smashed her head against the concrete, the sound sickeningly dull, until her forehead bled. Skye cried, confessing it had been a bluff—a fake sonogram—that she just wanted his attention. Elias followed suit, weeping, claiming it was a momentary lapse, a terrible mistake. A bluff? A mistake? What did that make my son's life? They knelt there, one apologizing repeatedly, the other begging for forgiveness. The noise was maddening. Watching their mouths open and close, I felt only disgust. A thought rose from the depths of my gut: Why them? Why was it my child, and not them, who paid the price? As Elias dragged me down, I bit his arm with a desperate, savage fury, my eyes blazing with hate. Blood dripped down my chin. He was clearly in pain, cold sweat pouring down his face, but he didn't dare pull away. He held me to him like he was terrified I would simply vanish into thin air. It was from that day on that I became "tame." Compliant. Obedient. 3 The clock ticked past midnight. I used to dread these long, hollow nights. I’d always leave the lights on, stubbornly waiting for Elias to come home. If he didn't answer my calls, I’d spiral, convinced something terrible had happened. Once, during a brutal storm, the news reported a major multi-car pile-up on his usual route. After twenty unanswered calls, I snatched my keys and rushed into the torrential rain. I drove to every lounge, every bar, every high-end club he frequented. I finally found his car, perfectly intact, parked outside a discreet, members-only establishment. When I burst into the private room, my hair was still dripping water onto the expensive carpet. Elias stripped off his blazer and wrapped it around me, a look of profound embarrassment flashing across his face. "What are you doing running out in your nightgown?" he snapped, his voice laced with annoyance. "Didn't you even think to grab an umbrella?" His friends erupted in laughter. "Ooh, look, the little wifey came to check his leash!" "Is that your wife, Beckett? Her outfit is certainly... unique." "Elias, my man, that's rough. Your phone has been blowing up all night." The mocking laughter made Elias’s face turn a darker shade of red. He shoved the car key into my hand. "Get home. You're making a scene." Making a scene. The words pierced my heart. I instinctively reached out to take his hand, but he violently flicked mine away. I stared at my empty fingertips, lost. The joy I’d felt at finding him safe was instantly drowned by that cold, relentless rain.
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