Chapter 6 Lana #4
That’s what lingers on the tip of my tongue. But I remain the perfect picture of a happy and docile wife, just like Ben wants me to be. Quiet, pretty, invisible.
“You can sit down now, honey,” Ben commands me with a tone that I know all too well.
Chatting some more about numbers and quarters of things I couldn’t care less about, I wait patiently like a green plant on my seat before the waiters arrive with the main meal and his boss dismisses himself.
Three little raviolis are staring at me from the plate, and I know that my hunger won’t be satiated with whatever fancy food this is.
Doesn’t matter, I’ll eat a sandwich when we get home.
Ben sits back and smooths his dress jacket, his advertising smile disappearing all of a sudden.
“You just couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you? ” he mutters, but I hear him loud and clear.
“I just wanted to be polite. Wouldn't it be weird to not say hello?”
“No, he’s an important man; talking to him is a privilege. You had no…” he clenches his jaw before hissing between his teeth, “I’ll deal with you later.” A shiver runs down my spine at the thought of how he will deal with me.
Don’t think about it, just stay in the moment.
Be nice, just like he wants you to be.
“It looks delicious,” I try, feigning enthusiasm at the plate. Digging my fork into one ravioli, I lift it to my lips before lightly blowing on it. Too hot, I’m gonna burn my tongue.
“You’re kidding me.” Ben stares at me, his eyes dark and unforgiving. What did I do?
“I invite you to a Michelin star restaurant and you blow on your food like a four-year-old,” he shakes his head in disgust, “I mean, c’mon, look at you, Lana. Where are your manners?” The sudden urge to grab his nape and shove his face in the plate of pasta invades me, but I shove it away.
Be nice.
Remember what he’s capable of.
“It’s enough you ordered soda like a child, but this, really, Lana?”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, swallowing back the tears that would definitely make me win a punch as soon as we set foot in our house tonight.
Ben never liked seeing me cry. I don’t mean it in a gentle way, as he’s affected by my sadness.
To him, crying is childish, petty. He remains silent and finishes his meal like a distinct gourmet before patting the corner of his mouth with his napkin.
Then, he lifts his face and looks at me hard, intensely.
“You’re beautiful tonight, honey. My boss is right. I am very lucky.” He smiles tenderly at me, reaching to stroke my cheek with his thumb.
Here, he’s not mad at you. He loves you.
Look at him, that’s the look of a loving husband.
My lips part, but I remain speechless. Ben drives us back home with jazz music playing and him humming soft melodies, his hands palming my thighs gently with the promise of carrying touches and pillow talks.
His palm lingers on the low of my back as we reach our door, and once the babysitter goes out after Ben generously gave her twice the amount she should have earned tonight, making her blush and thank him many times, he turns to me as I remove my heels in the living room.
His eyes are soft and carrying, his steps carefree, and I wonder if we are going to cuddle on the sofa and watch TV before bed.
Like we used to back then. I sigh, sitting on the sofa and enjoying the softness of the cushions before closing my eyes.
He is happy. Everything is fine. I know he’s standing next to the couch now, his palm stroking my hair.
I hum from his soft touch with a half smile before his gentle touch turns into a hard grip and pulls at my skull, making me yell instinctively.
“Shut up, you’re going to wake up Noah!” he yells with a low and threatening tone. I open my eyes and find his. Mad, dark, already veiled with the beast hiding in him.
“Ben, you’re hurting me, stop!” I beg, while his grip tightens, forcing me to see him from below.
“You cannot think I would let you go unpunished after humiliating me at dinner in front of my boss?” He arches his brows like I’m the unreasonable one.
“It was a mistake, I won’t do it again. I’m sorry, please stop. It hurts. I’m so sorry,” I try again, but his smile only grows wider.
“Yeah, well, I’m the one who’ll make sure this doesn’t happen ever again.
” He drags me on the floor by the hair, then puts his hand back in the pockets of his black dress pants and starts kicking me in the stomach.
Hard. Six times. Or ten. I don’t remember.
I absorb each kick with the least amount of noise I can manage, the pain spreading in my guts and ribs so strong it’s like I’m being burned from the inside.
Once he’s satisfied, he kneels next to me, then pats my head.
“Come on, my love, time to go to bed.” He then kisses my forehead gently.
“I love you,” he murmurs before he mounts the stairs like any normal evening.
I remain on the floor of our living room, tears falling from my cheeks, and knowing that I’ll be covered in bruises tomorrow, but luckily for him, no one will see them.
They’ll stay hidden, just like the darkness in him.
A lucky woman, they all said.
Lucky.
So lucky.