37. Venetia
Flashback
Age 18
I can smell a faint, feminine perfume lingering on him. I see traces of red lipstick on his shirts—the ones he makes me wash every time he comes home. He used to be clumsy, but now he’s become someone else entirely. Something is happening to him. He’s always on edge, exhausted, his pupils dilated, sweat soaking through his clothes.
This routine has become unbearable, to the point where I start shaking each time he comes home. It’s always the same: he falls onto me, finishes in minutes that stretch endlessly, then passes out—sometimes right on top of me. I clean up what’s left of him from myself, sometimes throwing up afterward. Over the years, my disgust has transformed into something deeper, sharper, and stronger.
It transformed into pure hate toward myself.
Only music and my time at the rescue center keep me afloat, providing reasons to hold on instead of falling back into the emotional state I found myself in after that doctor’s visit. It’s been a while since then, but it feels like yesterday.
I even stopped looking in the mirror for a while. My face had become so unfamiliar, so revolting, that I couldn’t bear to see it anymore. I had gotten better, finding comfort in avoidance. But Zayden’s comment—about looking sick and scary without makeup—changed everything, throwing me back into the pit. He said I needed to look good for the business meetings as if those businessmen cared about my face. Or maybe he just wanted me to cover the bruises he left on me. If that’s the case, I get it—no one wants to see how imperfect he is.
He’s been distancing himself. The suspicion gnawed at me like background noise I could almost ignore. But now, I know it’s true.
I know he’s cheating.
I know he avoids coming home.
I know it, but I don’t understand what I did wrong. I’ve given him everything—every part of my body, mind, and soul. I molded myself to be perfect for him, to become the version of myself he wanted. I let him tell me what to eat, wear, and say. I forgot what it’s like to be me—or maybe I never knew in the first place.
And now, I’m terrified he’ll leave me. I’ve seen the woman he’s cheating with. She’s everything I’m not—more beautiful, like a doll with perfect features and a flawless face that needs no makeup. When she laughs, it’s as if flowers bloom with each sound, her smile lighting the way.
I glance at my bandaged palm, a wave of shame sweeping through me. Last night, she was at the charity event with us. I watched them talk, my fingers clutching the glass of wine until a sharp pain ripped through my hand. People rushed to help, picking shards from my skin and trying to stop the bleeding, but the pain was nothing compared to what I felt inside. My attention stayed fixed on them, even with the crowd gathered around me.
Neither of them noticed. They never even glanced my way.
I feel like something Zayden has accidentally burdened himself with—a weight he’s forced to carry, keeping him from truly living. With me, he’s merely existing. With her, he’s alive. Thriving. I see it in the way he looks at her, the way his eyes light up whenever she’s nearby. Three years ago, he looked at me like that, back when we first met.
It feels like an eternity since then. I don’t have that spark anymore. Dark circles shadow my eyes, my voice barely above a whisper, and I’ve become someone I can hardly recognize—someone weak. A jealous shell trying and failing to reach the level of perfection everyone else expects of her.
I’ve morphed into someone I don’t even recognize, and now, I feel like I’m running out of time.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, a sob shaking his entire body as he drops to his knees beside me, causing the floor to tremble beneath us. “I’m so, so sorry, baby. I blacked out. I—I don’t even remember how this happened.”
My tremors intensify as he reaches up to my face, gently wiping away the blood that continues to flow. It feels as if he’s punched every part of my face and I’m bleeding from every inch.
The same hand that just turned my face into a mess now wipes away my tears and snot, only to smear it across my skin. “It’s fine,” I mumble. “I’m fine, Zayden. I understand.”
I do, really. It’s simple—he gets angry over something small, snaps, and lashes out at me. I endure in silence, sometimes even holding my breath because if he notices any tiny movement, he’ll think I’m trying to retaliate, and his anger will only escalate. Then, when he realizes what he’s done, he calms down. Most of the time, he helps me clean up, bandages my wounds, and tucks me into bed afterward.
He’s been acting this way more often lately, his anger as volatile as ever. I never understood that a person could hold so much hate until I met Zayden. Just last week, I woke up struggling to breathe, and when I opened my eyes, he was shouting that I’m keeping him from a normal life, gripping a pillow in his hands like a fucking lunatic.
I still don’t know what happened—if anything happened at all—but with everything that’s been going on and Valentine’s Day nearing, I decided to buy a gun. He keeps saying that I’m not enough, that I don’t fulfill my duty as a wife, and I’ve become convinced that he’d try to kill me on February 14th.
I don’t know why. It just felt like it.
It wasn’t easy—I had to wander into ‘Rats,’ as they call themselves. It’s an underground neighborhood filled with junkies, alcoholics, homeless people, and drug dealers. I’ve never been more scared in my life, but I managed to get the gun. Yet Zayden didn’t act, and now it lies hidden in a drawer. I doubt I’ll ever have the courage to use it. I’m too spineless for something like that.
“It’s all because of that motherfucker,” he groans, slamming his back against the wall. “We can lose everything, Venetia. He’s blackmailing me. Threatening our business.”
“Who?” I ask, taken aback. He stopped sharing his emotions and worries with me long ago. The fact that he’s confiding in me now means our relationship might be salvageable. “Tell me, Zayden.”
“Mark fucking Cameron,” he replies, his hands flying up to cover his face. It takes me a moment to remember who he is—he owns a real estate company, and we were supposed to collaborate with them on a new project soon. “He has—” Zayden trails off, weighing whether to tell me or not.
“It doesn’t matter,” I interject, a tight ache gripping my chest. Whatever this blackmail is, I know it must be something very serious, something he feels ashamed of. I don’t want to even think about it. “What did he say?”
“I have three days to give up our fucking business,” he mumbles, despair tightening his voice. “He doesn’t believe I’m a good leader. Nobody does. They think I’m reckless and foolish… They want me gone. All of them!”
Zayden is far from the perfect leader. Even I can see that. I don’t agree with most of the choices he makes—not that he asks for my opinion—and it’s no surprise that people have turned against him.
Still, I want him to succeed, and I want our relationship back. As we sit in silence, the seed of an idea begins to take root in my mind. If I can help him, maybe things can return to how they once were. I’ll see that sparkle back in his eyes, and he’ll stop being so aggressive toward me.
I understand why he acts this way—if the situation is as dire as he says, it’s clear he’s losing control. Zayden isn’t the most open person about his feelings, and I can only imagine how hard it must be for him to keep everything bottled up inside.
I know what I need to do to help us both.
I can handle Mark. The plan I’m thinking about is crazy and fucking insane, but now that I look at my husband, who’s as devastated as ever, I know it’s worth trying. Because I’ll do anything to win Zayden back.
To make him love me all over again.
My hands shake violently as I chew on the skin of my index finger, waiting for a text from the man I’ve entrusted with this job. It’s been an hour already, and it should be done by now, but still, there’s no word from him.
It’s like a phantom limb, a nagging ache that won’t go away. I try to shake it off, to reason with it, to distract myself with anything, but the paranoia is tenacious. It clings to the edges of my consciousness, a dark cloud that threatens to consume my sanity. What if something went wrong? What if someone noticed?
What if, what if, what if?
I feel like I’m going crazy within these walls. It would have been so much easier to go into Mark’s house and handle things myself, but I chose to trust someone more skilled in a job like this. He never asked questions, just agreed to do what I told him. When you have money and connections, you can hire anyone—from a ruthless killer who will do your bidding to the man I picked: silent, stealthy, and anonymous, with no questions asked.
The idea to help my husband came to me naturally. Most of the men in the company see me as nothing more than a watcher—a shiny trinket for Zayden who can only smile and observe. They underestimate me. I’m not just watching what happens between people here.
I’m listening. Being friends with the girlfriends and wives of these men has its advantages. I don’t even need to ask questions; they reveal everything themselves.
And then there’s Mark Cameron. As famous, wealthy, and seemingly perfect as he is, he struggles with alcohol addiction. The rumors circulate only within the tight circle of people I’m fortunate enough to be part of. He’s always carrying those metallic mini bottles, claiming they’re for water, while they’re actually filled with alcohol. With his age-related health complications and a peach allergy—information I managed to gather from his medical records—it’s hardly a wise choice.
All I did was supply my contact with enough peach dust, trusting him to slip into the house and dose a few bottles. The body’s reaction would take over from there, either leading to a fatal allergic response or inducing a stroke in due course.
Once he dies, there will be no questions asked. His people will want to cover it up and keep everything within the walls of his home. Nobody wants anyone to know that a businessman who owns a famous real estate company in the city is an alcoholic.
And then, whatever he had on my husband won’t matter anymore.
When my phone vibrates in my palm, I can hardly believe it at first. My eyes snap to the screen, and I quickly read the few words I’ve been waiting for over the past hour before they disappear. It was my idea to use a secure messaging app that only keeps the messages for a few seconds. I can’t afford to be paranoid about someone reading our conversation.
My senses awaken, and the world vibrates with a newfound clarity. A smile stretches across my face, a twisted, exhilarating grin, and for the first time in years, it feels real.
It’s done.
He’ll finally see. He’ll finally understand. The sacrifices I’ve made, the risks I’ve taken, the battles I’ve fought, all for his sake, for our sake. The anger consuming him will fade, giving way to an awareness of my dedication. He’ll finally see me as the protector and loving woman I’ve always been.
My heart beats a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a drumbeat of expectation. The air around me shimmers with a charged energy, as if the world is holding its breath with me.
I’m going to save our marriage.