Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
FALLON
My hands grip the steering wheel tighter as Kade's face invades my thoughts again. Green eyes that tracked my every movement across the classroom. That single word—enough—spoken with such quiet authority that thirty teenagers shut their mouths mid-sentence.
I shouldn't be thinking about him. Shouldn't have noticed the way his shoulders filled out his leather jacket, or how his presence commanded the entire front row without him saying more than one word all period.
Shouldn't have felt my skin warm when I caught him watching me explain iambic pentameter like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever heard.
When I saw him sitting there, slouched in his seat with those knowing eyes—my stomach dropped.
The guy from the parking lot. The one I'd been so careful not to stare at, so determined to pretend I hadn't noticed.
And there he was, in my classroom, watching me with an intensity that made my hands shake when I tried to pass out handouts.
God, what's wrong with me? I'm married. The word tastes bitter even in my thoughts. I shouldn't have looked at him in the parking lot at all. Shouldn't have catalogued the tattoos on his forearms or wondered what his voice would sound like up close instead of carrying across pavement.
But I did. And then I spent fifty minutes hyperaware of his gaze following me around the room, tracking every gesture, every step.
It made teaching nearly impossible. I stumbled over Keats, forgot what I was saying mid-sentence about Dickinson.
Had to read from my notes like some first-year teacher who doesn't know her material.
I'm used to teenage boys developing crushes. It happens. Comes with the territory of being young and female in a classroom full of hormones. I've learned to deflect, redirect, maintain professional distance without making them feel humiliated.
But this... this wasn't some teenage boy with an obvious crush.
I sigh, pressing my foot harder on the accelerator.
Kade is no boy. He's young, yes and technically my student, but there's nothing boyish about the way he carries himself.
The height, easily over six feet. The broad shoulders and muscled arms that suggest he knows his way around more than just textbooks.
The quiet confidence that silenced an entire classroom without raising his voice.
Stop. Stop thinking about him.
He's a student. I'm his teacher. End of story.
Even if Daniel is an abusive ass who—
My breath catches. Something feels wrong. Off. I glance down at my left hand resting on the steering wheel, and ice floods my veins.
No wedding rings.
"No. No, no, no." My voice cracks in the empty car. How did I not notice? All day. An entire day of teaching, of standing in front of students, of writing on the board, and I never once felt the familiar weight missing from my finger.
The bathroom counter. I must have left them on the bathroom counter after my shower this morning. I take them off every night—have to, because Daniel says they'll get damaged while I sleep—and put them back on every morning. Always. Always.
Except the one time I forgot. I'd been distracted, running late, and made it all the way to school before realizing.
I had to call in sick and spent the next week healing from the lesson Daniel taught me about remembering what belonged to him.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I press the accelerator harder, weaving through afternoon traffic. Maybe I can beat him home. Maybe I can slip inside, grab the rings from the bathroom, slide them back on my finger before he walks through the door. Maybe—
Daniel's Mercedes sits in the circular driveway when I pull up five minutes later.
The world tilts. My hands start trembling on the steering wheel, making the keys jingle in the ignition. He's home early. He's never home early unless something's wrong, unless he's angry about a case, unless—
Please God don't let him have noticed. Please. Please.
The prayer loops in my head as I gather my bag with shaking hands, check my appearance in the rearview mirror—makeup intact, hair still neat, nothing obviously wrong except the damning evidence of bare fingers.
I stare at my left hand for three seconds, willing the rings to materialize through sheer desperation.
They don't.
I step out of the car and walk toward the front door.
"Honey!" I call when I walk in.
I hate that term. Hate it. But I never felt like anything else fit, and he used to get so upset that I always called him by his name. You're my wife, not my colleague, he'd said, voice tight with barely controlled anger. So I started calling him honey. That seemed to satisfy him.
"In the kitchen!" he calls back.
"I'm going to get ready," I say, already moving toward the bedroom, forcing my voice to sound normal, casual. Not panicked. Never panicked.
I set my bags down on the floor and rush into the bathroom.
There they are—sitting right where I leave them every night on the marble counter beside the sink.
The engagement ring catches the light, obscenely large and flashy.
Not my style at all. He picked it out himself, never asked what I wanted, presented it like a trophy he'd won rather than a symbol of love.
My hands shake as I slide them onto my finger. The engagement ring spins loose—too big now, like everything else about my life. It used to fit perfectly.
I go back into the bedroom and grab my bags, tucking them by my nightstand where Daniel expects to find them. Then back into the bathroom, turning the shower on just as his footsteps sound in the hallway.
My heart hammers. Did he notice? Does he know?
He walks into the room, and I flinch on instinct—can't help it, my body remembers even when my mind tries to stay calm. But he just kisses my cheek, his cologne overwhelming in the small space.
"Hurry up and get ready. We have dinner with Judge Johnson and his wife."
"Okay." I keep my voice light, measured. "I should be able to be ready pretty quick."
I start undressing, putting my clothes into the hamper with mechanical precision. Everything in its place. Everything ordered. The blouse folded just so, slacks hung over the edge.
"Leave the water on when you're done," he says, already loosening his tie.
I step into the shower, and he walks out of the room.
The moment the door clicks shut, I can breathe again.
Hot water cascades over my shoulders, and I brace my hands against the tile, letting myself shake for exactly ten seconds.
Then I straighten. Rush to wash the day away, scrubbing with the lavender soap he prefers, using the shampoo that smells like him instead of me.
I'm thankful—so pathetically thankful—that it doesn't seem like he noticed I left my rings home.
When I'm done, I wrap myself in a towel and step out.
"Honey, I'm done!"
Two seconds later he comes in, already naked, and gets into the shower without looking at me.
I look away. He disgusts me now. After everything he's done to me—the bruises, the gaslighting, the systematic destruction of everything I used to be—I can't even remember the time when I thought he was a handsome man.
When his confidence seemed attractive instead of threatening.
When I believed his attention meant love instead of ownership.
I dry off quickly, wrapping the towel tighter around my body like armor that won't protect me from anything that matters.
"You're a teacher?" Clara asks as the waiter fills our wine glasses.
I smile and nod, then take a sip. So far it's been the same old show as every other dinner—Daniel shows me off, which is weird to me since he's always making jabs about my looks or my weight, even though I could stand to gain a few pounds.
Then the men begin talking and I'm forgotten along with the other wives, left to make small talk that means nothing about lives that don't matter.
"Where and what do you teach?" she asks.
"I'm a high school literature teacher."
"Oh." The word carries that particular tone. Oh, why would you do that? The judgment sits there between us like a fifth guest at the table.
"Well, how do you like it?" She tries to cover for herself, adding brightness to her voice that doesn't reach her eyes.
"Well, I'm at a new school. Today was my first day there, but I love teaching, so we'll see how the new school goes." Daniel made me quit my last job, I didn't get to choose this any more than I get to choose anything else in my life. "And what do you do?"
"I'm on a few charity boards," she says.
Code for I don't do shit but donate my husband's money to charity so they put me on the "board." Same shit, different wife. Different dinner. Different performance of the same tired script.
"Oh, that's amazing," I say instead. "That must be so fulfilling."
"It really is." She beams like she actually believes it.
I chug my wine, dying for this night to end.
The next hour and a half passes in excruciating slow motion while I listen to her go on and on about her dog—a teacup Pomeranian named Princess who apparently has separation anxiety and a gluten allergy.
Then she transitions seamlessly into her fashion designer friend who designed the dress she's wearing tonight, which is beautiful—I'll give her that—but I can't bear anymore of this.
Can't stomach another word about fabric choices and hemline debates while my husband sits three feet away discussing campaign donations with a judge he's probably bribing.
I refill my wine glass. Then again.
Daniel's hand lands on my thigh under the table—too hard, fingers digging in through the fabric of my dress. A warning. I've had too much to drink. I'm being too obvious about my boredom. I'm embarrassing him.
I set the glass down and fold my hands in my lap like a good wife.
Clara doesn't even notice the exchange. She's moved on to discussing her interior decorator's vision for her summer home in the Hamptons. I nod at appropriate intervals, make small sounds of interest, and count the minutes until this performance ends.
Finally—finally—the check comes.
Daniel pulls out his black Amex with practiced flourish, waving away Judge Johnson's halfhearted offer to split it. This dinner is an investment, a transaction disguised as friendship. Everyone at this table knows it except possibly Clara, who seems genuinely delighted by the evening.
"We should do this again soon," she says, touching my arm with manicured fingers.
"Absolutely," I lie. "That would be lovely."
We stand. Exchange air kisses. Make promises no one intends to keep.
Daniel's hand settles on the small of my back as we walk toward the exit—possessive, controlling, guiding me like I'm a child who might wander off if left unsupervised.
The night air hits my face when we step outside, cool and merciful after two hours in that suffocating restaurant.
The ride home passes in silence except for Chopin drifting through the speakers—something melancholic and measured that matches the control Daniel maintains even now, after three glasses of scotch.
His hands rest easy on the steering wheel.
Mine stay folded in my lap, fingers twisted together so tight they've gone numb.
I count streetlights. Thirty-seven between the restaurant and our neighborhood.
When we pull into the driveway, I wait. He has to cut the engine first, open his door, circle around to mine. The routine never varies. Independent women don't exist in Daniel Reid's world—only extensions of himself that require proper handling.
Inside, exhaustion pulls at my bones. The wine sits heavy in my stomach. My face aches from smiling for two hours straight.
I slip out of the dress in our bedroom, careful with the fabric. It's expensive—he reminded me three times before we left. I fold it precisely, creasing along the seams, then place it on the shelf in my closet where the dry-cleaning pile waits. Next week's errand already planned.
My sleep clothes wait in the dresser. Simple cotton shorts and an oversized Stanford t-shirt I've had since grad school. I carry them to the bathroom, close the door halfway out of habit even though he'll follow. He always follows.
The t-shirt slips over my head. Soft. Familiar. I'm reaching for the shorts when I hear him behind me.
His hands brush my hair off my neck. Gentle. Almost tender. Then his lips follow—light kisses along the curve where my shoulder meets my throat.
"Daniel." My voice comes out flat.
He doesn't respond. Just keeps kissing, hands sliding to my waist.
"I'm tired."
"Don't be such a prude." His fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, pulling.
"Please stop. I'm so tired—"
"Dammit, Fallon." His voice drops to something sharp and cold. "You wear that sexy dress and tease me all night, you're going to give me what I want."
His hand shoves between my shoulder blades, forcing my upper body down onto the bathroom counter. The marble is cold against my cheek. He yanks my panties down in one rough motion that burns against my skin.
I stare at the white tile inches from my face.
Counting the grout lines.
Twelve across.
This is marriage. This is what I chose when I said yes to a man I barely knew. This is the price of escape from Nebraska, from small-town suffocation, from a life that felt too small for everything I wanted to be.
He pushes inside without preparation, without care for whether I'm ready.
I make a sound. Not out of pleasure.
"There we go," he says, like I've finally done something right. "See? You wanted this."
I didn't. I don't. But he doesn't ask permission anymore—he just takes.