9. Shelby
9
SHELBY
M ason walks toward the door, and for some reason, my feet carry me after him. I don’t know what I’m doing, why I feel the need to walk him out, but I do.
He pauses at the threshold, turning to face me one last time. “Keep your doors locked,” he murmurs, voice lower now, rougher.
I swallow hard, nodding. “I always do.”
His gaze lingers, like he’s waiting for something. Or maybe I’m the one waiting.
And then, without another word, he steps outside, disappearing into the fading light of the lazy afternoon.
I shut the door, exhaling slowly, realizing for the first time in years… that I don’t feel so alone anymore.
I try to shake the lingering chill—the one that settles deep in my bones the moment he drives away. The house feels emptier without him, the silence pressing in, thick and suffocating, like the walls are closing around me.
No one has ever been inside this house but Clay and me. Having someone else here, even for a short while—an ally, a friend—feels almost surreal. I hadn’t realized how much I missed something as simple as human connection until it was gone again, leaving nothing but hollow quiet in its place.
I force myself to focus on anything else—anything—to keep my mind from slipping into that heavy, aching loneliness. I count the cracks in the ceiling, trace the faint stains in the carpet with the tip of my toe, let my eyes blur against the muted glow of the television.
But it doesn’t matter.
The loneliness seeps in anyway.
It moves through the house like a slow-working poison, curling into every empty space, filling the gaps between breath and thought. It’s cold and unshakable, a sickness that clings to my skin, sinking into my bones, making everything feel a little heavier.
For the longest time, life was just me and Clay. He was my constant, my safe place, the one person I could count on to be there without question. We had our routines, our inside jokes, our own unspoken language that only siblings can understand.
We were always together. Until we weren’t.
Clay’s job as a cybersecurity analyst meant he worked from home most days, his fingers flying over a keyboard while I moved through the house, trying to ignore the soft clicking of his mechanical keys. My world was smaller then, predictable. Three days a week, I lost myself in the controlled chaos of a kindergarten classroom—the sticky hands and bright laughter of children who saw the world in primary colors.
The other days were for me. My writing.
Poetry has always been my poison. Words are where I lose myself, where I find myself, where I convince myself the world is softer than it really is. I think that’s why I couldn’t see through David’s carefully constructed facade—because I have a tendency to romanticize things.
Even the things that are far from romantic.
Looking back, I should have known better. Should have seen the cracks, the warning signs, the moments where his charm twisted into something else—something sharp-edged and possessive. But I wrote over the red flags like they were nothing more than ink stains, turned the ugly truths into pretty metaphors, convinced myself that love—real love—was supposed to hurt sometimes.
It’s what poets do. We take pain—raw, ugly, blistering—and wrap it in silk. We dress the wound in metaphor and lace, pour it into verses that tremble under the weight of what we can’t say out loud. We make it rhyme so it hurts less. Or maybe so it hurts better . We take the jagged edges of heartbreak and shape them into something you’d hang on a wall, something people underline in books and whisper at midnight when the silence feels too loud.
We take what nearly destroyed us… and make it beautiful.
Because beauty, even born from suffering, is still a form of survival.
But there’s nothing beautiful about the way my life turned out.
And now Clay isn’t here, and the silence isn’t just quiet—it’s vacant. A hollow, gaping thing that stretches through the house, reminding me that, for the first time in my life, I am truly alone.
Until even my own loneliness is stolen from me.
The front door swings open just as I sit on the sofa, staring blankly at the TV, tuned to some muted afternoon game show.
The intrusion comes so swiftly it knocks the breath from my lungs, as unexpected as it is horrifying.
I freeze.
Not enough time to run.
He steps inside, pushing the door behind him with slow, deliberate intent, but it doesn’t latch shut.
One small mercy.
If I can just get to that door, if I can reach it before he does, I can run.
That’s the only thought in my head as David’s gaze drags over me—possessive, like I’m still something he owns. He hasn’t accepted it—our divorce, my freedom, the fact that I walked away and never looked back. In his mind, we are still bound, still locked in a world where I belong to him and him alone.
My stomach turns to stone as David strolls inside, as casually as if he’s just getting home from work.
His gaze locks on me the moment I leap to my feet—sharp, unwavering, like he knew I’d run.
But he’s already moving.
Fast.
Too fast.
By the time my foot hits the floor, he’s there, stepping in front of the door like a shadow solidifying in my path.
The exit is gone.
Blocked.
And so is my breath.
A slow, knowing smirk curls his lips—lazy, cruel, like he’s amused by the game and already sure of how it ends.
Dread slithers up my spine like ice water, cold and creeping, coiling around my throat. My pulse pounds in my ears, and I take a step back without meaning to—instinct, survival.
“Going somewhere?” he asks, voice low and dangerous.
Then his arm wraps around my waist.
Casual. Effortless.
Like he’s done this before. Like he owns the space between us, and I was always meant to be caught.
My body stiffens. My skin goes hot where his hand presses against me, fingers splayed just beneath my ribs. Not gentle. Not rough. Just... certain .
Like he knows I won’t get away.
Like he wants me to try.
His cologne hits me hard—sharp, overpowering, suffocating. It curls in the back of my throat like smoke, thick and nauseating. Every nerve in my body begs me to run. But I force myself to stand my ground, to swallow my fear and throw it right back in his face. Escape might not be an option. But defiance? That , I can do.
“Still thinking you can get away from me, wifey?”
When he sets me down and corners me against the wall, I fold my arms, hiding the tremor in my hands.
“You shouldn’t be here, David. You have no right!”
His smirk vanishes. The shift is instant, the air turning razor-sharp.
“See, that’s where you’re wrong. That restraining order of yours holds no weight when it doesn’t exist.”
My breath catches, and I take a step back. Of course the restraining order has miraculously disappeared. Even when I filed it in another jurisdiction; I should have known he’d make it go away somehow. Because that’s the sort of reach that David has.
He tracks me across the room, his movements slow, calculated. A predator toying with its prey.
“I did a lot for you, Shelby. The least you could do is show a little gratitude.”
“You did nothing for me but bring me misery.”
His jaw twitches. He doesn’t like being reminded of what a worthless piece of shit he is.
I try to edge toward the kitchen—toward the knife block—but his hand shoots out, catching my wrist.
Pain lances up my arm. “David, let me go.”
“You’re my wife, and I’m never letting you go.” His fingers tighten, grinding against bone, a brutal promise disguised as affection. He yanks me closer, his breath hot against my cheek, thick with the scent of power and possession.
“You are mine—and mine alone—until your very last breath. Even if that breath is stolen by my own hands.”
My pulse hammers, adrenaline colliding with fury. He’s done this before. Grabbed too hard. Squeezed too tight. Pushed too far. And every time, I let him get away with it.
But not now.
Now, I tell him no—and he doesn’t even flinch. My resistance is nothing more than an inconvenience, a minor rebellion he intends to crush beneath his grip.
I jerk back, throwing my full weight into it. His grip falters—just enough. I rip free, stumbling away, breath coming fast and sharp.
Disgust coils in my stomach, rising like bile. And he sees it. Feels it. His gaze darkens, flickering with something violent. Something lethal.
He’s not used to me fighting back.
But that doesn’t mean he won’t enjoy making me regret it.
He lunges.
My back slams against the wall, pain flaring through my spine. He grips my jaw, his fingers pressing into my cheeks until my teeth grind together.
“You think you can just leave me, and I’ll let you walk away?” His voice drops to a whisper, more dangerous than any shout. “You think I won’t find you? I will always find you, dear heart. And I will always bring you back where you belong—with me.”
I struggle, but he presses his body against mine, trapping me between muscle and cold drywall.
My stomach twists.
I’ve been here before.
But every encounter after the divorce has taken on a life of its own. His assaults are escalating, his madness consuming. And no one will listen.
I swore I’d never be here again.
David tilts his head, studying me, relishing my fear—my helplessness.
“Where’s all that fight now, hmm?” His thumb drags along my cheekbone, the touch sickeningly gentle. “You were always at your best when you were scared.”
A breath shudders out of me as he winds a hand around my throat and starts to squeeze. Light at first, but I know how this goes. If I fight him, he’ll squeeze harder.
Maybe today will be the day he finally cuts off my air and rids me of this world.
His other hand goes to the neckline of my dress, and with one swift motion, he rips it down the front.
Humiliation burns through me.
It’s exhausting, standing here, completely exposed to him.
I never got into the habit of wearing a bra at home—opting for comfort over anything else—and I’ve never regretted that decision more than I do now.
David buries his head between my breasts, inhaling, licking, kissing, sucking.
I think I’ll throw up.
Then—a click.
And three words that change my world forever.
“Let. Her. Go.”